


The After Life

by Bohemian_seahorse



Category: Rent (2005), Rent - Larson
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Character Death, F/F, F/M, Heaven & Hell, LGBTQ Character, M/M, friendships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:48:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29489295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bohemian_seahorse/pseuds/Bohemian_seahorse
Summary: It's not so much "life after death" as it is "life after living."Friends, dead, separated in the afterlife. Half in heaven, half in hell.A rumour. Is it possible to work your way out of hell? Can purgatory be the salvation - the door to heaven and being reunited?
Relationships: Joanne Jefferson/Maureen Johnson, Mark Cohen/Roger Davis, Roger Davis & Mimi Marquez, Thomas B. Collins/Angel Dumott Schunard
Kudos: 2





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> yes the title is a play on words. it's a mix of "afterlife" as in life after death, and "after life" as in, after being alive. i'm cool i know

There are three options for the dead: 

Heaven, hell, purgatory. 

Heaven is a place for the generous, the kind, the inspired, the faithful. 

Angel, Collins, Mark, Joanne. 

Hell is a place for the addicted, the sex workers, the disloyal, the traitorous. 

Roger, Mimi, Maureen, Benny. 

These two places are opposites. Those sent to heaven are those who have lived noble lives, have proved themselves worthy of wings they earn up there. They live in peace with people they love - unless those people were not so good. 

Hell is where the bad people go, people who’ve made ill decisions, done stupid things, hurt people. They live in eternal pain, burning in fire and sleeping on beds of glass. They are tortured by the knowledge that the people they love are carrying on happily in heaven, while they suffer in hell. 

They aren’t always bad people. Some of them just messed up, made a mistake. Some of them ended up abusing a substance, and even when they stopped using it, their fate had already been written. Some of them just went into the careers that would give them the money to survive, but they were sinners for using their bodies in such a way. 

Even when some of them tried to correct things and right their wrongs, the world had already decided they were evil. So they ended up in hell where everyone was bleeding and crying and love was dead. 

They are all dead. And once you are dead, there is no mercy. There is scrutiny and judgement and two categories. And everyone fits into one of these: good or bad. 

People can say it’s unfair, that they don’t deserve their destination. But ultimately, nothing can ever be done about it. They are dead, they have no power. They are stuck for eternity, missing their friends and families and having to make do with whatever small bits of happiness they can find. 

Sometimes groups are split down the middle, half in the clouds, half in the pits. Sometimes all but one would end up together. Those who are alone in the afterlife often went mad. But there is no way out. Death is forever. 

Death is a place where you look back on your life. If you have your loved ones with you in heaven, you can reminisce together and smile. If you’re alone in hell, thinking it’s unjust, you have nothing to do but cry over the people you’ll never see again and the memories you can’t share with anyone. 

Hell is painful. There are whips and knives and fire and labour. There are hours of working, and minutes of free time when you can cry and wonder what you did to get here. There is an aching dullness because this torment will never end, this is life now. 

Heaven is beautiful. People can do whatever they want and spend all the time they have with those who they love - usually. Unless the people they love are forever apart from them, and all they have left of these people are the ever-disappearing images in their minds. 

Unless half of the group are being beaten in hell and all you can do is ask yourself why they deserve this when you’re in paradise. 

Death can mean families reunited. It can also mean families broken apart. 

But there is always a third option - purgatory. 

Purgatory is an infinite empty space. It’s a waiting room filled with nothing. If you prove yourself truly sorry in hell, it is possible to work up to purgatory and then to heaven. Though it has only happened several times in history. 

There is a way your soul can be searched and seen as pure enough to ascend. But whether or not death will choose to pity you is another story altogether.


	2. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c/w blood

Mimi's P.O.V

**_PART 1 - Some God’s experiment in which we have no say._**

I don’t belong in hell. I know that I’ve done some questionable things, but I do not belong in hell. 

I don’t believe that anyone could ever do anything in life that equates fairly to eternal damnation, not even the worst people. What could someone possibly do that really does justify having their blood spilt and their soul strangled every day? 

But me, personally, I definitely do not belong in hell. I never killed anyone, didn’t break too many laws. I never hurt a single being, yet here I am - being hurt again and again by some merciless god. 

I’ve seen more of my blood in the afterlife than I ever saw in life. And I keep thinking to myself - well there must be a reason I’m here, I wouldn’t be injured like this if I was a good person.

And I guess that maybe there’s one thing that comes to mind when I think of actions in my life that could’ve led to this. But that was such a small incident, and it was over so quickly, and the whole time I was doing it I was guilty and I knew that it wasn’t the right thing to do. 

I repented for it, so why am I in hell? 

I’ve spent the last few months down here, searching for anyone I know from life. But I’ve found no one. And that makes me happy, because it means the rest of my friends are either still alive or have made it to heaven. 

But it also hurts me, because that means I’ll be alone down here forever. And no one stays sane here if they have no one to talk to. I’ll be stuck with all the beautiful memories of my life, while they’re all up in heaven, able to discuss these memories together. Without me. 

Maybe I deserve it. After all, I died in the most horrible manner. I ran away and I left my friends to search for me and to cry. But by the time they found me I was long gone. 

I ran away because I was sick. But in the end, it wasn’t even the disease that killed me. It was hunger. I died excruciatingly as I slowly starved on the streets. I watched as my body got smaller and more bones began to show, felt as my stomach began to get angry and then to ache and then to burn. Until I couldn’t move, my limbs shaking if I tried to stand. Shutting my eyes and lying on that bench and regretting everything. 

Because I left the people who cared about me. I saw them put up missing posters, but I still let myself die. I let myself hide from them, even when I knew it must be breaking them all. I was a selfish coward as I let death take me, I’d betrayed them. 

Though I don’t think that’s why hell picked me. I made a dumb mistake, but it didn’t do any harm. It just led to more tears. 

The one thing that kept me out there when I was dying was the promise of heaven. I knew that my life would soon be over but I wasn’t scared because I thought I’d make it to heaven. I thought I’d get to see Angel again - I missed her every day I lived. 

I rushed into death, I gave in. And it wasn’t worth it. Now I’m down here where everything is painful and dark and I’ll never see Angel or anyone else I know again. Because none of my friends ever did anything to get here. I don’t think that even I did, and I was the “bad” one of the group. 

I was the one who spent far too long as a stripper, doing drugs. And even when I stopped all that, I still made that terrible choice that I’m pretty sure is why I’m serving time here. 

And the worst bit is that, if I’m right, it was a tiny thing and now I’m stuck here for all time. I’ll never see anyone I love. I’ll never get out.

I am in hell, all because I was stupid for a week. And now I have all the time in the world to regret it. 

… 

My body cries out in horror. I used to think that at least in hell nothing would be able to hurt me, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. 

I have to build a house alone. Planks of wood that are stained with my own blood piled on top of each other to offer shelter for the next poor person who walks through hell’s doors. 

Knives in my back. Stabbing and stabbing and sending my muscles into spasm after spasm. I’ve collapsed to the ground more times than I can count, but the floor is also made of daggers and provides no relief. 

Each time my head slams on the floor, more fresh slits are opened on my cheeks and forehead. More blood drips down and muddles my vision, more goes in my mouth. 

I pause to spit out another wad of blood, cough until my throat is cleared of it. Wipe the angrily hot sweat from my brow. I may be dead, but there’s still plenty of blood in me to soak the earth - the razor sharp earth. 

I hoist up another plank of wood and squeeze my eyes shut as my arm trembles and the wood falls. Tears roll down my face as I bend to pick it up again, a knife plunged into the backs of my knees. 

It’s a test of endurance. 

My legs wobble as the pain floods my brain, threatening to send me tumbling again. But if I fall, I don’t think I’ll ever stand again. So I let myself sob and let myself bleed and fight against all my body’s natural urges that beg me to lie down and rest. 

There is no rest here. 

The wood is red and slippery, as are my palms. But all the empty houses are covered in blood. Nothing is clean. I haven’t washed since I died. But then again, I don’t need to. The horrible part is that all my wounds heal in the night, so I can be broken again the next day. 

Tomorrow these cuts will be gone, making way for a whole new set of probably even worse ones. 

My eyelids flicker, my mind slow mush. So much blood is pouring out. Where am I? Who am I? Why am I being murdered like this? It feels like dying, but I’m already dead. That means there are no boundaries, no limits to my torment. It means I can bleed forever. 

The knives bury deeper into my legs, my mouth opening in a silent scream. Silent because I can’t find energy to make a noise. All the strength I have left is focused on making sure I don’t fall again. 

I slam another piece of wood onto the side of the building. How many left to go? My legs seem to turn to jelly after as they give out under me. I grab onto the partially built house, urging my arms not to let go. 

Breathe. Breathe. Take in the fiery air that stings my lungs. Let it scald my throat. But at least it clears my mind, lets me think straight. 

I shut my eyes and I ignore the burning in my chest. My hands scrabble at the walls, slick with blood that makes it even harder to stand properly. I get ready for one last pull before I give up and let them beat the remaining life out of me.

But then I’m standing again. And I’m laughing despite myself because I’m doing it. I’m bleeding out of every part of my body and I’m crying and I can barely breathe in this toxic air, but I’m standing when most others aren’t. I’m beating the odds. 

I cry because of the shock, because of the pain, because I know that every day will be like this now until I’m too weak to carry on. And the ones who are too weak are taken away and their pained souls are fed to some great monster below us, never seen again. 

I rip the knives out of my legs and back and I laugh through my tears, because I might go mad down here, but at least I know I can withstand the punishments. 

There are gaping holes in my skin that flap like hideous mouths. My flesh is scorched and scratched and I am in unimaginable agony - hurting even more than my slow death. And my legs may be shaking so much that I have to cling to something to stay steady, but I am standing. 

My friends may be living in heaven’s luxury, but maybe I can survive hell’s wrath. 

…

There is no food here. We don’t eat. I constantly feel hungry, though maybe that’s just because of how I died, but there’s never anything to ease that feeling. 

No drink either. My throat is always dry and sore from the poisonous atmosphere, but there’s no water to get rid of that. No water at all - not to wash in either. The only thing I have to wipe away the blood, sweat and tears is a cloth that seems to be made of tiny needles that just aggravate my skin further. 

But hey, I deserve this don’t I? I’m a criminal if I’m down here. Surely I must be getting what’s fair here. But do you really think that it could be “fair” for any human to be stabbed until they pass out? 

How can your logic explain that? Or do you still think that all of us down here must have done something that makes this okay? 

It isn’t like that though. The woman whose house is next to mine, she’s here because she tried to perform a demonic ritual to save her dying son. Of course, it didn’t work. But she was desperate and she was terrified and she turned to evil spells (that aren’t even real) to try to bring back someone she loved. 

And now she’s in hell and her son is in heaven and they’re apart forever. Is that still fair? 

It’s like me and my friends: inseparable in life, separated in death. 

What wouldn’t I give to see just one of their faces? Any of them at all, just a person that I can go through this with, so I don’t have to suffer alone. But that’s cruel to wish one of them being here - I can’t put anyone else through this too, no matter how much I long to talk to one of them again. 

If they got lucky in heaven, who am I to take that away? Good for them. If only I could be there too. 

There’s a loud crunching noise and a woosh of air as the doors of hell open. I don’t like to look as the next victims walk through there - eyes full of fear as they realise where they are, staring in shock at the nightmare world they’ve ended up in. 

Because most of us don’t expect to end up in hell, no matter what we’ve done. It’s always a surprise when the fire hurts our eyes for the first time. No one can prepare you for what you’ll face down here. 

But this time the doors open and all I can do is cry. Because he shouldn’t be here. No way. If I don’t belong in hell, Roger certainly doesn’t. 

When I wished to see someone I know, I didn’t really mean it. Please, someone, have some mercy and take him out of here. I want to see him but I can’t see him bleed every day. Let him walk the other way, don’t make him come in here. I don’t think I can take it. 

But he walks forward and he sees me and this look of pure misery falls on him as he sees that all this time, I’ve been in hell. But there’s another thing in his eyes too, this kind of understanding acceptance - as if he already knew where he was headed. As if he’s done something terrible that he knew would get him to hell. 

But I don’t ask, I don’t say anything. I just let my legs move me forward, ignoring the blood that drips down them and the way he seems to break at the sight of that, and I pull him into my arms. 

I hug my friend and we both cry. He cries because I’m bleeding all over him. I cry because the world is cruel, because hell has no place for Roger and his blood that will soon decorate the floors.


	3. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c/w a lot of blood again

Mimi's P.O.V

Free time. The first one of those that I’ve spent with another human. But in some backwards way, this is the least enjoyable of all the ones I’ve experienced in the five months I’ve been here. 

There are so many things I want to ask Roger. I want to know how he died, why he’s in hell too, if the rest of our friends are alive or if they’re just in heaven. But he looks so frightened and I just can’t make my voice strong enough to say any of this. 

“You?” He asks, staring at me in disbelief still. 

“Me.” I say sadly. 

His eyes scan over the cuts that cover my body. God, I’d overlooked how they’d appear to someone new to this place. I’ve gotten so used to seeing walking corpses that I think nothing of people with their heads hanging on by a tendon. 

“They heal.” I tell my friend, “Every night they heal.” 

He nods, “But what happened to you?”

And I don’t know if he’s asking why I’m so battered up, or if he’s wondering why I’m in hell. I only have a definite answer for one of those, so I pick that option. Even though I’m fairly sure that’s not what his question meant. 

“Building a house.” I say, “And it was probably one for you.” 

Roger looks into my eyes and I’m scared that he’s going to cry again. The only thing worse than him being doomed with me, is seeing him hurting. But this is hell, the world has no sympathy for us anymore. 

He looks down at his hands and I almost laugh at how clear the skin is. His fingers won’t look like that soon. Soon they’ll be red raw and I’ll be having to watch as he’s slashed to pieces next beside me. 

“I’m sorry.” He says quietly, “For not being able to find you.” 

And he’s crying again and I’m sure that the universe is laughing so hard at us right now. I ran away, I didn’t want finding, I was chasing after death. And I sure got what I wanted. 

“No.” I say, “I’m sorry for dying.” 

“Yeah. Same.” He mutters. 

And I just want to ask _“but how did you die?”_ There’s something in his confused eyes that tells me it wasn’t as simple as disease. There’s guilt but there’s also this knowing, and I’m worried that he died doing something bad and that’s why he’s here. 

Because the Roger I knew in life never did anything to belong in hell. He never fought anyone. He was always there for me, to the point where he’s even stepped into the afterlife and immediately apologised for not being able to help me. 

So what could he have done to be here with me? 

I’m sure he’s wondering the same thing. I’m sure he wants to ask me. But how can I tell him the truth? How can I tell him of that little stunt, when I know it’ll break his heart? 

Are we both going to spend an eternity of pain hiding our sins from each other? 

“The others.” I say, “Are they-”

“Mostly dead.” He says quietly, “Collins first - AIDS. Then Benny, Maureen, Joanne. Then me.” 

_But how did you die?_

“Mark?” I ask.

Roger sighs, “Alive, as far as I know.” 

I nod. I want to warn him about what he’s going to go through here. But how do you prepare someone for that kind of pain? The kind of pain that tears open your legs and singes your throat and makes you want nothing more than to curl up and sleep - but you can’t do that because the floor is also a weapon. 

“How did the rest of them - you know - die?” I ask. 

And he coughs harshly and I reach out and grab onto his hand as his eyes widen. I remember the first time I noticed how much breathing hurt down here. I was certain I was going to die for a second time, and death had been painful enough first time round. 

He keeps coughing and I tell myself that no, that is not blood coming out his mouth. I am not seeing my friend bleed already. If I accept that, I think I’ll lose it completely. Me bleeding is bad enough - I can tell myself that it’s just a consequence of my own actions - but a friend bleeding is where I draw the line. 

If my heart was still beating, I’m sure it would be shattering right now. 

Roger finally stops coughing, his grip tightening on my hand as he blinks away tears. The tips of his hair are blackened from the ash that drifts around and fills our lungs. His eyes are red and his face is dirty. But his clothes aren’t destroyed yet - not like mine; they may let our scars heal overnight, but the rips in our clothes are permanent. 

“Benny died in his bed surrounded by family.” He says bitterly, “The rest, I have no idea.” 

And I died of hunger alone on the street, though of course he knows that. He also knows that Angel died of AIDS only weeks before. And now he’s dead too, but I don’t know how. And I can’t ask. 

Because I can’t push him away from me, not when I’m all he has down here. I can’t leave him alone to suffer - not again. I may not want to watch him get hurt, but I can’t walk away knowing that he will still be crying, but this time without anyone to comfort him. 

I may be in hell, but I am not a bad person. That’s why I’m so sure I shouldn’t be here. Just as Roger shouldn’t be here either. 

“Mimi.” He says suddenly. 

“Yes?” 

“I don’t want to be here.” He says.

And when I look into his eyes and see the first tears, I’m so sure that my dead heart breaks entirely. Because this is not the man I used to know. This is someone so completely ruled by fear of everything around him. 

“None of us do.” I say, “But at least we know that we did nothing wrong, and that we aren’t really meant to be here.” 

And I know for sure that I do not imagine that look in his eyes, the one that tells me that Roger has done something wrong, something that he thinks is the reason he’s here - just like I have. 

The real question is: are either of us going to spill these secrets?

… 

Finishing the house. My arms are stinging again and the cuts on my legs are open and gushing blood again. Roger’s next to me, his face completely frozen in this blank, scared expression. 

His hands are also drenched in blood and they’re shaking so hard he can barely keep a hold of the boards of wood. He hasn’t blinked for so long, just keeping his eyes trained on one of the walls, his body unmoving except for the trembling of his hands. 

The walls of this house are now covered with the blood of two people. Mine from earlier is dry and flaky, but now is coated with a new layer of shiny red that drips down onto the ground. 

The floor itself pierces the hole-ridden soles of my shoes, puncturing the bottom of my feet. It’s better to stay in the same position because each time I move, that’s another blade into my foot. 

I watch as a sword flies through the air and embeds itself deep in Roger’s back. He lets out this awful little groan as he falls forward and his body crashes to the ground. And the ground is attacking him, poking holes into his chest and slashing his face. 

He tries to push himself up but his arms give way and he collides with the floor even more heavily than before, screaming as another round of knives rupture his chest and blood pools and soaks his clothes. 

And I know that it would be easiest if I just left him there. But this is my friend and I can’t bear to just watch as he stills and lies as if he’s waiting to die. I remember when that was me, when I thought that if I waited, there’d be an end to this. 

But you can’t die in hell. You have to get back up or be swallowed by the beasts below the earth. 

So I reach out my arm and I grab Roger’s hand and I pull him back onto his feet. And he sways and I keep on holding him to keep him upright, even as his eyes meet mine and I see the tears and the horrible open wounds on his torso. 

“I can’t do this.” He whispers, voice rough and weak from the sulphuric air. 

And I want to hit him or shake him because death has ruined him. When he was alive, he would’ve never backed out of anything, he’d have been the one telling me to keep pushing, he’d be the one giving the “never give up” pep talk. 

And now he’s crying and bleeding and holding onto me, knowing that if he lets go he’ll fall and be stabbed again. And he looks so tired and so hopeless and I don’t know what to do. Because if he doesn’t have it in him to cope in hell, I can’t do anything about that. If he doesn’t believe in himself, I won’t be able to stop him from being taken. 

“Yes you can.” I say firmly. 

And he looks at me through blood and tears and seems to remember what’s going on, seems to become aware of the fact he’s crying. He wipes his eyes and grabs some wood and takes a step, grimacing as his feet are assaulted again. 

He lets go of my hand and he tries to pretend I didn’t just see that, pretends that he didn’t just come so close to surrendering - to taking the easy way out. 

And the man I see right now, sucking up his pain and trying to get on with things, that’s the Roger I used to know. 

…

“Is there such a thing as sleep here?” 

I understand where he’s coming from with the question, but it’s kind of obvious. If we didn’t sleep, we’d never get the energy back to work the next day. 

Though there are a lot of things on Earth that are missing from hell. There are no plants or animals here, there is no sun or moon. There’s just a red glowing sky that’s filled with dust clouds that people cough on. 

There’s no food or water but there is hunger and thirst. Just another form of torture. There is no music or art. There are people who talk but they do not laugh and smile like they would have in life. They just try to encourage each other to keep on walking. 

There isn’t fun here. We have free time, but it’s not spent enjoying ourselves. It’s just a moment to ease the bleeding and wipe away the tears and ask ourselves why we deserve this. 

“Yeah.” I say, “But the beds hurt.” 

Roger doesn’t look my way. He’s sat in my house, on the hard slab that is a chair. He keeps trying to pick the dry blood off his hands, but all it’s doing is irritating the skin and making it redder. 

His clothes are now full of rips and are stained with blood which will still be there tomorrow. His eyes are dark and his face is hollow. 

“This is forever isn’t it?” He asks quietly. 

My heart aches as I rub at my huge cuts. 

“Yeah.” I say, “But at least you’re not alone.” 

He sighs and I see the tears that clear a track through the soot and blood on his face. He’s sat so stiffly and I can just feel the terror coming off him - and that is not a person I recognise. This is a stranger in Roger’s body, this is someone possessing him. Because he would not give up like this, he would not be so quiet and so defeated. 

“You know.” He says, gently prodding at one particularly large hole in his chest, “There was a time when that would’ve seemed reassuring, but I don’t think it is anymore.” 

And I hug him again for what feels like the hundredth time in a day, letting his blood and my blood mix together. He buries his face into my neck and I can feel his slow breathing. I let my hand rest on his back and feel him slump against me. 

And I cry again. I thought I’d started to understand hell. I’d accepted my fate. But then he shows up and ruins it all and kills me again. 

I let my tears fall into his hair because this is not a man I know. This person is a spectre and I want us both to wake up and be alive again. I never knew death could be so horrible. 

How can I keep us both standing? How can I carry him as well? How can I continue when the walls of my own home are lined with the blood of my broken friend?


	4. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c/w death

Mimi’s P.O.V

I see Roger cry and I think about my dead friends and I decide that we need something to keep our minds occupied. I know I need to come up with a distraction to fill our free times - a project. 

He said that most of the others are dead, which is heart wrenching enough in itself. But if they are, I want to know where they are. Because if anyone else is down here too, maybe we can find them. 

But do I want to find them? It was hard enough having to watch as Roger grappled with his own determination and got up off the floor. If I have to see anyone else I care about bleed and cry, changed completely from who they were in life, I might break. 

I decide that I’d rather know where my friends are, than just hope they’re somewhere better than this. Because what if I’m wrong? What if they’re bleeding in a defeated heap somewhere nearby, just waiting for someone to help? What if they’re hoping I’ll find them and are failing without me?

I can at least try, just to ease the paranoia that creeps into the back of my mind. If none of them are here, then good for them. That’s great. But I’d like to check. 

“I propose a project.” I announce. 

Roger’s looking at his hands as if he can’t believe there are no scars at all left from yesterday. That’s the wonder of hell. They slice you into pieces and let you start from scratch the next day so it can all happen again. Otherwise we’d all be dropping to the ground. 

“Go on.” He says, “I’m intrigued.” 

And that little bit of light in his eyes and the way his lips pull upwards - that’s a person I know. The playful tone of voice one I remember so well. We may be dead, but perhaps it is possible for me to bring him back to life. Maybe I really can revive him and we can fight this world together - just like we did once. 

Maybe it’d be easier to get through this if we told each other everything. Maybe he tells me how he died and why he’s here and I tell him of my stupid little incident. 

Or maybe those things are best left unsaid. I don’t want to ruin whatever we’re repairing between the two of us. Maybe it’s safer if I don’t see the sadness and the fury in his eyes when I come clean. Maybe I’ll be hurt less if I don’t know how he died. 

Knowledge is power. But there is such a thing as knowing too much. Sometimes that bit of ignorance is what lets us sleep at night. 

“Get some paper.” I say. 

“If you tell me where I can find that.” He says and I can’t help but smile because this person next to me is familiar and that’s reassuring. 

“In that drawer.” I say, pointing to the other side of the room. 

Roger grabs a sheet of paper and sits in front of me with a pen poised. He looks up with this exaggeratedly childish excitement and says:

“Now what do we do Miss Marquez?” 

And I laugh, “Well, my enthusiastic student, I think we should make a list of where we think the others are.” 

His act slips and he looks at me in confusion. 

“Why?” 

I shrug, “Gives us something else to think about, doesn’t it?” 

_It distracts me from wondering how you died and why you’re in hell with me._

“I guess so.” He says, “So, where do we start?” 

I grab the paper and pen out his hands. 

“Collins.” I say, “Died of AIDS?” 

He nods, “Definitely heaven.”

I raise an eyebrow, “Proof?” 

Roger stares at me like I’ve gone mad, “Don’t you remember all the money he used to give to help us survive - even when he needed it himself? Gotta be one of the kindest guys out there.” 

I scribble it down, “Angel?” 

“Heaven.” We say at the same time. 

No proof needed. Angel going anywhere other than heaven would mean the world had lost its mind. She was the nicest, most loving, most generous person ever. She was the poster example of the people heaven accepted. 

“Joanne.”

“I think heaven.” He says, “It takes a lot of grit to keep believing in Maureen like she did.”

I nod, write it down. Makes sense. I never understood how Joanne stayed loyal all that time, how she kept waiting and waiting for Maureen to finally calm down. I wonder if they ever got any happy time together after I died, or if their relationship never took off. 

“And Mark’s alive?” I ask. 

Roger sighs, “He was alive when I was in hospital.” 

And I think this might be my chance to ask how he died. But there’s something about the distant eyes that stare through me that makes me rethink. If talking about death is something that’s going to make him disconnect, I don’t want to bring it up. 

Maybe it really is better I don’t know. 

“He’ll go to heaven.” I say and Roger nods. 

“No doubt.” He says, “That man had enough creative inspiration to feed a whole family.” 

We both know what that means. It means that we’ll never see him again. It means that all the people who fall under the “heaven” category on our list are people we can only ever see in our dreams, it means they’re gone. 

We lapse into a sad silence as we let this fact wash over us. Collins, Angel, Joanne, Mark. They’re all vanished from our lives - or our afterlives. They’re all soon to fade from our aching minds permanently. 

“Maureen.” I say. He looks up suddenly when I break the quiet. 

“Hell.” He says, “For what she put Joanne through.” 

“Benny.” 

“Hell.” He spits, “He was entirely motivated by money.”

And the two of us are in hell too. In fact, once Mark is no longer alive, that will make an even split between the two realms. Two parties completely stranded with no way of contacting the other. 

I don’t think Roger feels the same, but I want to locate Maureen and Benny if they’re down here. They shouldn’t be alone, even if it’s just more blood to haunt my nightmares. We may all be down here for a reason, but that doesn’t mean we should be isolated in our strife. 

“And you don’t know how any of the others died?” I ask. 

“No.” 

_What about how you died? What’s so secret about that? What is it about your death that is so awful that you hide it?_

And an alarm blares, telling us it’s time to get to work. I see how Roger seems to shrink at that. And that’s when I realise how old and sick he looks. His eyes are so dark and his face is so thin and there are so many lines. And that shows me how terrified he is of what we have to do down here, how much it affects him knowing that we’re never going to see our friends again. 

And he looks so _dead_ , even though I know that’s exactly what he is. 

“I’ll try to stop you from falling.” I whisper. 

He just says, “But you can’t make me get back up again if I do.”

_Thomas Collins - heaven. Cause of death: AIDS.  
**Kindness.**_

_Angel Dumott Schunard - heaven. Cause of death: AIDS.  
**Generosity**_

_Joanne Jefferson - heaven. Cause of death: unknown.  
**Patience**_

_Mark Cohen - Earth. Predicted location - heaven.  
**Inspiration**_

_Mimi Marquez - hell. Cause of death: starvation.  
**Desperation**_

_Roger Davis - hell. Cause of death: unknown.  
**Emotional**_

_Maureen Johnson - hell. Cause of death: unknown.  
**Unfaithful**_

_Benjamin Coffin - hell. Cause of death: pneumonia.  
**Greed**_

_We are **DIVIDED.**_

...

3rd Person P.O.V

_**“He was alive when I was in hospital.”** _

_Mark was more than alive. He was there when Roger died._

_Mark was holding his friend’s hand, crying as he saw the heart monitor slow and then speed up again. He was praying because he didn’t think he’d be able to cope alone if the last person he cared about died, if Roger followed the rest of their friends into the light - or into the dark._

_And the odds were leaning more towards him going into the dark. Maybe before that night in particular, heaven would’ve been an option. But after that alcohol and that man who had got him in this hospital in the first place, it was now off the table._

_If only he’d stayed in, if only he’d not got so angry, if only he’d had less to drink. Those were the only things Mark could think - those, and hope desperately that Roger would pull through and not follow the series of tragic deaths that had become so commonplace in Mark’s life._

_Mark held Roger’s hand and he cried._

_“Mark? Why are you here?”_

_And that voice was scratchy and sore, though still less so than it would be once he arrived in hell._

_“Because you’re dying.” Mark sobbed._

_Roger frowned, “But why are you here? I’m a monster, you just saw.”_

_And it was true that Mark’s heart had just been broken as he saw that blood and that bottle and heard those angry words. As he’d ran forward to grab his drunk friend, screaming and crying and begging, only to be thrown off and forced to watch something that no one ever wanted to see from someone you love._

_It turned out there were to be two deaths that night._

_“I don’t care.” Mark said, “You’re dying, I needed to see you again.”_

_And Roger just scowled and he looked on the verge of crying._

_“I don’t want you here.” He whispered in a broken voice._

_And Mark cried harder because those words were so easily misinterpreted. What Roger meant was that he didn’t want Mark to see him die, especially not after what he’d just done. What Mark thought it meant was that Roger hated him._

_But Mark held the hand of his dying friend tighter than ever and he prayed that at least he would be spared and taken to heaven. He was a good man who had done one terrible thing. He didn’t belong in hell._

_“You won’t die.” Mark said firmly._

_Roger stared up at the ceiling. Of course he would die. Mark knew that really. The man lying in that bed was one who could barely breathe, who was so weak that he would never get up again. His face was still stained with the other man’s blood, but they did nothing to hide the pained, exhausted grimace on his narrow face._

_And then Roger had looked at Mark one last time with dying eyes and had whispered:_

_“I love you Mark.”_

_And then his hand fell limp and the machines beeped like crazy and Mark cried harder than he ever had in his life. He watched as paramedics tried and failed to pump life into Roger’s unmoving body, screamed at them to try harder, to not give up on him._

_All of his friends gone. And his best friend, dying painfully with a love confession on his lips. Mark told himself that life really was evil._

_And the worst thing: he would always remember the last night of Roger’s life and the horrible action that now seemed to define his entire existence. It was why he was in hell - after all, that is where murderers (no matter if they were drunk and unaware) go._

_Mark is still alive. But he is dying of heartbreak._


	5. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c/w blood

Mimi's P.O.V 

“I feel like I’m about to throw up, but something tells me that isn’t possible here.” 

“What ever gave you that idea?” I ask. 

Roger just glares, “Maybe the fact that I’m also hungry and thirsty yet I’ve not seen any food or water.”

He sits on the floor, his eyes shut and his breath sounding dry and raspy, coming very fast. His hands are in tight fists, the knuckles pure white from the pull of the skin. I reach out a hand to help him to his feet, but he ignores it. 

His eyes open briefly, glancing at a particularly gory gash on his arm that shows off far too much bone and soft tissue. I watch as he gags at it, before slamming his eyes shut again and concentrating on breathing. 

And the way his body is shaking and he looks ready to cry again, I can’t leave that. I remember how it felt - overwhelming, feeling like I would bleed and struggle and never be able to find anything positive. 

But now I have Roger and I have the hope that maybe Maureen and Benny are out there to be found. And I’m far from saying that things are okay down here, but I’m saying that I want him to see that it’s not all as bad as it seems originally. 

“Hey.” I say quietly, putting a hand on his shoulder and wincing as my cuts are scratched by the fabric of his torn clothes. 

I kneel down next to my friend and I say:

“I know that it’s horrible. I know that neither of us should be here and that you’re scared. I’m scared too. But we’re not alone, okay. And this won’t last forever.” 

He blinks quickly, obviously trying to stop tears from falling, and stares at me. 

“It _hurts_.” He whispers, “It hurts more than dying.” 

And I can agree with that. My death was the most painful thing I’d ever experienced; slowly shrivelling up until I was too weak to breathe. But then I walked through these doors and I rediscovered the meaning of pain. I saw amounts of blood that I didn’t know I even had in me. It was like nothing I’d ever felt and I was so ready to be taken by whatever hides under the ground. 

I can’t speak for Roger. I don’t know how he died or how much it hurt. But I don’t think it could be any worse than the pain down here. 

Suddenly, I’m on this train of thought again. I’m thinking about us being in hell and about how in life, he never really did anything to earn this. He was a _good_ person. He had bad patches, but don’t we all? No one can be perfect all the time. 

What could Roger possibly have done that wiped away a lifetime of goodness in an instant? 

Is he wondering the same about me. Sure, we both did drugs for a while. But we stopped and regretted it. Yeah, I had my time in the strip club. But I quit. It’s what I did after all those things that was where I messed up, after I’d ran away and slept on the streets. And it was such a short-term thing that I thought maybe it wouldn’t count. 

But I guess it did. 

“Of course it hurts.” I say, “It’s hell. It’s going to hurt. But we can’t give up, okay. We just have to keep battling through it and maybe someday it will be over.”

“As long as you don’t leave me.” He says quietly. And I hear the unspoken _“again”_ in his broken voice. 

I just shake my head, stand and hold out my arm again. This time Roger takes it and he lets me pull him to his feet. He smiles at me and I’m angry at the whole world for putting us here. Why do we deserve it? 

“I’ll never leave you.” I say softly. I keep my hand in his despite the sharp biting of my wounds and the sticky warmth of our blood. I can deal with that if it means I’m not alone. I can deal with helping him back up every time he falls if it means I have someone here with me. 

“There really isn’t water here?” He asks. 

I shake my head and he sighs. 

“I’ve never been more thirsty in my life. It feels like the skin inside my throat is peeling.” He says. 

Well, this isn’t life. This is death. And it’s like nothing the living have ever seen. 

…

The screams break through everything else - high and desperate and terrified. 

I watch as Roger tenses, glances at me with wide eyes, and breaks into a run. I follow, ignoring the way new holes are opened on my feet with each step. I slam into the back of him as he stops suddenly. 

And we’re both just staring as we try to decide what to do. But everything’s flying through my head and all I can do is stand there and watch as this young woman is devoured by the earth. 

Her body is already half submerged, her arms flailing frantically as she screams. Her face is a mask of terror - bulging eyes that seem to shine madly as she begs for someone to save her.

And I just stand there. Her midsection is mangled badly, caught between the sheets of glass that are the floor. They dig far too deeply into her and blood is spraying everywhere. Her skin is too pale, each movement she makes just ramms the glass further into her squirming body. 

Roger seems to wake up. He collects his thoughts much faster than I do and rushes forwards to the woman, finding himself victim to her arms’ wild lashings. He turns back to me and looks at me in a mix of fear and disgust. 

“What are you doing?” He shouts at me. 

And I don’t know. I don’t know why my feet stay rooted to the spot as Roger tries to pull the woman free, which only succeeds in hurting her more - this is clear from the heightened pitch of her piercing screams. I don’t know why I don’t move as he is soaked in this dying woman’s blood and as he cries and tells her that it’ll be okay. 

It’s not okay, it’s not okay. 

“Mimi!” He yells, his voice constricted with angry tears, his chest moving rapidly, his hands tightly gripping onto the lady’s, “Do something!” 

And he’s pleading and he’s crying and they’re both bleeding. But I don’t move. I watch and I curse myself internally and I ask why I’m not helping. 

And the blood keeps coming and the woman’s face is completely red as it exits her body and finds itself painting her. And Roger’s using all of his strength to get her free, to dislodge her. She yells at him to pull harder, to not stop, tells him that he can’t leave her here to die for the second time. 

And he tells her that he won’t and that we’ll save her, even as it dawns on me that there’s more blood on the floor than there is in her panicked body. 

She’s hysterical as she cries and tells us that she has a family, that she’s already died once, that this hurts more than anything else in the world. And the glass edges deeper into her stomach and Roger tells her to focus on his face and not to look down. 

Then he looks to me again and this time all I see on his face is fury. 

“Stop watching!” He yells, “Help me!”

But all I can hear is a dying woman’s screams. Her hands are grabbing handfuls of Roger’s clothes, clawing like a wild animal as she tries to find something she can use as a support to help her out. But the more she fights, the more she bleeds and the more she screams. 

I’m aware of tears on my face and of blood on my body. But nowhere near as much blood as is covering the people in front of me. 

And the woman’s crying and crying and telling Roger that she’ll do anything if he lets her live, she’ll be good, she’ll pray, just let her see her daughter again, let her kiss her mother goodbye. And he cries too and he tells her that he’s trying, that she just needs to hang on, that she’ll make it. 

She won’t. Once you fall, you have a limited amount of time. If you can’t find the power to get up again, you’re gone. You get your body destroyed and your remains fed to the thing that lurks under us. 

This happens to you. 

“Mimi please!” Roger shouts, not even looking at me this time. He’s shaking so much as the woman slips further under, as the ground eats more of her flesh. Her stomach is burst and torn open with another splatter of blood and this scream is so much worse than any that have come before. 

And it’s weird. As suddenly as this started, it’s over. Her body flops forward, her mouth hangs open, and the glass slices her into tiny bloody chunks. And then the ground opens up and her body falls and is just not there anymore. It’s as simple as that. 

She gave up. 

Roger’s just standing there, gazing at the closing hole, horrified. He hasn’t seen this yet. He’s scared that the same will happen to him. I take a step and I start to say something reassuring, but then he turns. 

And he’s crying and is dripping with the woman’s blood. His hands are trembling and he just looks at me. He looks at me like I’m a stranger, like I’ve just stabbed him in the heart. He stares with frightened eyes and opens his mouth in a whisper. 

“Why didn’t you do anything?” He asks. 

And I just look down at the blood. The blood that’s disappearing before my eyes. The world is wiping away all traces of this weak woman. 

She fell and she didn’t get back up. She failed the trials of hell. She didn’t believe in her own strength, so she died. 

“Because once someone gives up,” I say shakily, “There’s nothing you can do to save them.” 

…

3rd Person P.O.V

_Mimi made a mistake. A horrible mistake that was going to haunt her forever._

_She ran away and she ended up homeless but that wasn’t the bad bit. She left her friends to search and search for her. She was the cause of so many tears. But that wasn’t where she messed up so badly._

_No, Mimi had been a drug addict once. Those things had taken years off her life and had ruined some of the years while she was alive. The only reason she’d ever stopped was because of Roger. She saw him and she saw that he’d managed to get off them and she asked him to help her do the same._

_So, she’d stopped. And she hated drugs more than anything. But she was homeless now and she didn’t want to die. And there was quite a business in the selling of drugs in New York._

_She’d made a promise to Roger years ago that once she’d stopped using, she’d never sell them. Not after she’d seen what they did to people. They turned you into a violent monster who punched and hit people you loved. They made you unlikeable and they made you depressed. They took children from parents and they took parents from children and they tore lives apart._

_Mimi hated drugs but she hated being hungry. Funny really, considering that selling drugs would end not save her. It would end her up in hell, where she would be hungry forever._

_She was desperate and scared and she thought that getting money that way would be the only hope of surviving. She thought that selling would keep her alive, even if it meant her friends would never want to know her again. That didn’t matter too much to her anyway - she’d ran away from them and had no intention of ever going back._

_She was in a very closed-off state of mind, at a dead end. And all the signs seemed to point to the same thing, every thought seemed to tell her what to do._

_So Mimi started selling drugs. She got hold of them from her old dealer and she filled his role. She started selling death sentences to broken people, people who had once been her. And in their darting eyes she saw their fear, their trauma that told them drugs would soothe their pain and they wouldn’t have to hurt anymore._

_That had been her years ago. She’d thought that drugs would heal her, when in reality they only made her cracks wider._

_When she didn’t have a customer to deal with, she cried because she was betraying her friends. She knew what Roger would say to her if he saw. She knew that he’d be so angry, so upset. She knew that it would make him cry as he asked her why she was doing this when she knew what it did to people._

_He’d ask where he’d failed. He’d ask why she didn’t listen. He’d think that she hated him. He’d think that he hadn’t been good enough._

_Mimi couldn’t deal with the betrayed look she knew she’d see in his eyes. And he was her friend. She loved him so much and she didn’t think she could live with herself if she saw his pain like that._

_Because for years he’d tried to help her, and now she was going behind his back, blatantly killing his trust._

_And the drugs weren’t good. They didn’t get her much money. She still died._

_Mimi starved on the street as a drug dealer. She made one stupid mistake and she would suffer for eternity because of it. And she would never be able to tell Roger because it would destroy him._

_She died of hunger and died a criminal. She went to hell and she knew that she didn’t belong there, but maybe she did deserve it._

_Maybe the world was right to make her bleed. Because those people she’d sold drugs to, their families would be crying now. Soon enough, all her customers would be in hell too, and that was her fault._


	6. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c/w death

Mimi’s P.O.V

Roger hasn’t talked to me since we watched that woman slaughtered yesterday. He just sits and stares like he’s still shocked by me. Although his scars from the incident have vanished physically, they’re still there inside. 

Hell may heal us on the outside each night, but nothing can heal our minds from the trauma we’re put through day after day. Some wounds are more than skin deep. 

He seems to have been lost in thought. I can almost see his brain working. And maybe it’s about what I think it is - about his death. Maybe I could ask and could find it all out. 

But then he’d have a right to know about my drug dealing and I can’t cope with telling him about that. 

“I’m sorry.” I say. 

He just stares past me, “Really? If you were sorry, you’d have helped her.” 

I didn’t help because she had already decided that she couldn’t win. She wasn’t mentally strong enough to keep going in hell, so she was removed. You can only keep living if you believe you can. 

He doesn’t understand. I’ve seen that happen to so many people already. If I cried and tried to help every time, I’d lose it. I can’t see these people as lives anymore, it’s just a competition to stay here. I’ve had to accept that there’s nothing I can do for them once they’re at that stage. 

He thinks that everyone here can be saved. It doesn’t work like that, and the sooner he realises the better. 

I want to tell him this, but I look over and I see that he’s crying silently. 

“What is it?” I ask quietly.

“Why do we have to be here?” He asks angrily, “Why us?” 

I know why I’m here, but I can’t say why he is. 

“Why did I have to die?” He asks, “Right after I told him that.” 

“After you told who what?” I ask, placing my hand on his. 

And his eyes darken and he looks away and I know that he’s shut down. It must be something to do with his death, that’s what he’s keeping hidden. I just want to know, is that too much to ask? 

“Nevermind.” He mutters, “Nice talk Mimi.” 

And he walks out and leaves me stunned, trying to wrap my head around the fact that he came so close to spilling information on his death, but was too annoyed at me to get it out. 

Maybe if he would tell me, I’d be brave and admit my dark side too. 

…

3rd Person P.O.V

_What did Roger do that night that ended with him dying in a hospital bed? What was it about it that decided he would go to hell? What happened to make Mark cry so much as his friend slipped away?_

_Mark and Roger were the last two standing. Angel had died a year before and set into motion a hurricane that would sweep through and finish off all the others. A chain of events had been put in play._

_Most of these deaths were innocent. There was Angel and Collins and Benny getting sick. There was Maureen’s car accident and Joanne’s gas fire. Though maybe some of those simple things were darker than they appeared._

_Maybe Maureen had been speeding to get to her latest hook up and maybe Joanne had been burnt alive waiting for her girlfriend to show up to a date._

_Maybe. That wasn’t to say that was the case, but it was a possibility. Because things aren’t always as they seem and some secrets are hidden deep down, but will break free eventually._

_Life was one great big maybe. Maybe I’ll die today, maybe I’ll go to hell, maybe I’ll go to heaven. Maybe my best friend will get drunk and murder someone and end up revealing his undying love for me as he breathes his last breath._

_Mark and Roger had been drifting apart. They were tortured by all the people they had lost and were unable to offer each other any comfort. Because how do you help when you know that once you were part of a beautiful group, and now there’s only two left?_

_When both are in love with each other but are too numb to see it. Ghosts haunted their home, ghosts that asked why they were still allowed to live when everyone else was dead, ghosts that whispered to them what hell was like, ghosts that blamed the two men for not helping keep them alive._

_It was enough to drive anyone mad. That, or drive someone to a bar at midnight in winter, leaving his roommate behind to panic when he woke up alone._

_Because when Roger slipped out that night, all Mark could think was that he too must be dead. He’d been dreading it for so long, since they were told of Joanne’s burnt body only a week earlier. Mark had told himself that if all the others were dead, soon they would be too._

_So, he cried. And his heart broke beyond repair. That was the night he started to die._

_Roger wasn’t dead yet. He was sitting at a bar, horribly, painfully drunk. And he too was crying, but only because the alcohol had made him realise that life didn’t make sense anymore. How could they have such terrible luck? If he hadn’t felt so miserable, he could’ve laughed at this._

_In fact, he did laugh. He laughed a lot. He laughed and he wept until everyone in the room stared at him in either pity or confusion - or a mix of both._

_Roger propped his elbows up on the bar and he rested his head in his hands. He hated crying. He hated feeling weak. But what else was there he could do? Everything was falling apart. He was falling apart. He didn’t know what mattered anymore._

_He cried and he drank and he did that for hours. He tried to wash away all the horrible things in his head. He tried to stop the thoughts that told him he should’ve tried harder to find Mimi when she ran away, he should’ve agreed to meet Maureen that night so she never had to get in the car, he should’ve done more, should’ve been better._

_Because it was right, wasn’t it? Maureen had asked if he wanted to get a drink with her. He said no so she found someone else to keep her company and ended up flying off the side of the road._

_He didn’t know how she died. He just knew that she died alone because he turned her away. He always turned people away. He always had to be the lonely one. He was an awful friend._

_He drank to forget Maureen’s sudden, unknown cause of death and Mimi’s disappearance and Collins’ quiet funeral that he didn’t even go to and Mark in their house, probably sleeping. He wanted to forget all his failures._

_At some point, Mark decided to go out and look for Roger instead of giving him up to death. He ended up in the bar, and he ended up with his heart breaking even more._

_Roger thought about his friends. Mainly Mimi. He thought about how he’d barely even tried to bring her home. It was like he didn’t care. He imagined her watching him now from heaven, hating him for letting her die like that._

_He laughed. He laughed through his tears because his head was fuzzy and the world was spinning and everyone he knew was dying. He laughed even as a big man grabbed the collar of his shirt._

_“You laughing at me punk?” The man asked._

_And Roger was so drunk and so lost that he just kept laughing and crying, because this was all a dream. He was watching this unfold from a distance. It was an out of body moment and he didn’t think he’d ever be at home in his own mind or body again._

_The man punched his nose. Blood. Roger slumped down and it seemed to the world that he’d just collapsed and died from the stress and turmoil inside him. It looked like he would never open his eyes again._

_Or at least to Mark it did. He stood in the doorway and he let out a choked sob because it looked like Roger had just finally had enough and hadn’t been able to cope with the pressure of living anymore - like his aching body had just shut down._

_And the man lifted Roger up by his shirt and cheered, showing off his prize to the bar. He laughed at how easy it had been; he loved when they didn’t even put up a fight._

_But then something snapped and Roger’s eyes were open - clouded with alcohol as they were. And his head jerked up and he punched the man straight in the face._

_The man dropped him in shock, letting out a pained cry. His eyes shone with fury and predatory hunger, a look that said “you’ll pay for that.” This man was not used to being messed with, especially not by younger, drunk men._

_“Little bitch.” He growled._

_And his hands were powerful and his arms well-muscled. He hit Roger again and again until the smaller man’s face was covered in blood and he could barely balance. Mark continued to watch as his friend was beaten almost to death, frozen in fear._

_That’s when the bartender called an ambulance, said that there was going to be a casualty if someone didn’t stop this soon. Because this wasn’t an even fight, this was a massacre. This was murder._

_The bartender asked if anyone knew either of these men. Mark stepped up, “He’s my best friend.”_

_Someone pulled the man off of Roger, who slid down to the floor silently. He couldn’t see. His body hurt so much. Everything hurt. He reached out slowly with one shaking hand, felt it close around an empty beer bottle._

_He was dying. He knew. But he was also drunk and he didn’t know what he was doing and he had to get back at this man. If he’d been sober, he would’ve let Mark take him away to hospital. He would’ve gone quietly and let the man get away._

_But he was drunk. And people do dumb things when they’re drunk and terrified of their approaching death._

_So Roger smashed that bottle on the back of that man’s head. The first thing he noticed was the blood. God, it was everywhere and there was no stopping the red river. It flowed without any sign of letting up._

_The second thing he noticed was Mark. He was carrying this other man into an ambulance, then carrying Roger into an ambulance. He was also crying and trembling and the bartender was telling him that it would be alright._

_The third thing was the darkness. His vision was swimming with black spots. He couldn’t move any of his limbs and he felt completely paralysed. He may have been drunk, but he knew that this wasn’t good._

_He also knew that the other man wouldn’t survive. No one could lose that much blood and be okay. He saw that in Mark’s glassy eyes, saw that his friend had just realised that he now had connections with a murderer._

_Roger shut his eyes. He let them take him to the hospital. He let Mark hold his hand the whole time, even though he knew he didn’t deserve it. He was a killer. He shouldn’t have someone crying over him._

_He thought of Mimi and of Maureen. He thought of Angel and of Collins. He thought of Joanne and of Benny and he thought of how he would be joining them very soon._

_He thought of Mark and how he would be left all alone. He loved Mark. He couldn’t do that to him._

_He loved Mark. Yet he’d never been able to tell him. Roger used to have all these plans. He was going to wait until things were better again and then he would tell Mark he loved him, and they’d be happy together._

_He had all these plans for a future, and now they were all out the window. And that made him so, so angry at himself for being so reckless, so stupid. He shouldn’t have been dying tonight, it wasn’t fair._

_Roger tried so hard to cling onto life. But even the strongest fires must at some point burn out. No one can live forever._

_That’s why he used all his life in one sentence. He gave up on hoping to survive and he decided instead to make sure Mark knew the truth before he was gone. He owed his friend that much. He couldn’t leave him without knowing he’d done all he could._

_“I love you Mark.”_

_Roger knew he was going to hell. He just didn’t expect Mimi to be there too. He knew that he belonged down there, he was a murderer. He would accept whatever punishment waited for him, and would do so alone._

_He just didn’t know how bad it would be down there._

_He would miss Mark but Mark would live for a long time. And even when he died, he’d be in heaven. They’d never see each other again. Roger hoped that Mark would forget about him and about his deathbed confession. It would be easier that way._

_At 2:49 AM Roger let go of life. He shut his eyes and he disappeared into the darkness, with nothing but guilt and love for Mark left in his heart._


	7. 6

Mimi's P.O.V

“I can’t do this.” Roger whispers, “If we’re stuck in hell together, you need to at least know why I’m here.” 

He walks back into the room, his eyes red but not crying. I’ve been watching him sobbing outside for almost an hour now, talking to himself and no doubt trying to decide if this is really something he wants to do. 

I’ve noticed the way he’s been thinking a lot. He’s been debating this for a few days now. And I almost don’t want to know, because then I’m obligated to tell him my story too. Maybe we should just keep bleeding with our mouths shut. 

But God, he’s my friend. If he wants to get things off his chest, how can I turn him away? And I’m his friend. He has a right to know my dirt too, and if I deny him that can I really call myself a good friend? 

So I hold his hand and lead him over to the two chairs and I try not to meet his tired eyes. Hell’s destroying him and I don’t want to see that in full swing. Because then I’ll start asking myself how long we have left until he gives up and is taken like that woman was? 

I can’t lose him. I ran away from him once. I can’t have him slip out of my grip now that he’s finally so close. 

I ran away from all my problems and it killed me. I thought that I could just take off and leave my friends behind and everything would be okay. But it earnt me an afterlife of misery. If I learned anything, it was that sometimes it’s better to stick it out and be honest with the people you love. 

“They say that when you’re on your deathbed, you reveal your biggest secrets.” Roger says, “I know I certainly did.” 

And I just sit and wait for him to continue. Because I don’t want to tell him my side of things, but I want nothing more than to hear his. I don’t care if that makes me a hypocrite. 

“Mark wasn’t just alive.” He says quietly, “He was there when I died. And I spilled my biggest secret to him.” 

I wonder for a moment where Mark is. Is he still the only one alive? Or has he died too? If he is still breathing, is he dying? 

When he dies, there will be no one left on the Earth to remember any of us. Our time will be over completely and there won’t be anyone alive to immortalise us. Because normally the dead are kept alive by the minds and the words of the living, they are passed down through generations and are remembered. 

But us, we will be forgotten when Mark dies. Because who else is there left to think of us and tell their children about us? It’ll be like we never existed at all. 

“I told him.” Roger whispers, “I told him that I love him.” 

He’s crying slightly. For some reason, this news doesn’t surprise me that much. I’d always suspected. But I can’t imagine what it was like for him, knowing he was about to die, desperate to make sure Mark knew before it was too late.

I can imagine the fear. 

“We’ll never see any of them again, will we Mimi?” He asks, wiping his eyes. 

I don’t know. How can I have any answers? Just because I’ve been rotting down here for longer, it doesn’t mean I know exactly what the future holds for us. I’m just as scared as he is. There are people I want to see again too. 

I constantly worry about the day I don’t get up again, when I become that poor woman. I can’t stay here forever, no one can. What happens then? If I go before Roger, he’s left alone and will soon join me. If he goes first, I don’t think I’ll be able to get over seeing that. 

What waits for me beneath the ground? I’ll be eaten, and then what? Does everything just end? Do I have no conscience and no memories and no identity? Does my brain just stop working and I become another speck of dust? 

“I don’t know.” I say quietly, “But Mark’s alive and that matters, right? He’s okay.” 

Even if we’re not. At least one of us is alright. 

“He must be so mad at me.” Roger says, “He saw what I did.” 

“What did you do?” I whisper. 

And his eyes are so pained and I think that maybe I don’t want an answer this time. Is what he did that terrible? Is it something so bad that Mark really does hate him for it?

“I got drunk.” He laughs humourlessly, “Everyone I loved was dying and it all hurt so much. So I got drunk, because I’m stupid.” 

I don’t want him to carry on, I want him to stop. I can’t know how he died. I can’t know what bad thing he did. Then I have to do the same. I can’t see how much it’ll break him when it’s my turn, how angry and offended and upset he’ll be. 

But I do nothing to stop him. Because I guess he’s right. If we’re going to be stuck in hell together, we do need to know why each of us are here. Otherwise everything we build here is based on lies. 

And it’s better to admit it all now. If we wait longer, it’ll only punch harder when it comes out. It’ll only break us more. If we act like everything’s normal for too long, we’ll fall apart more when we decide to share it. 

As much as I don’t want to do this now, I can see it’s for the best. 

“This man started hitting me and I guess I knew I was dying.” He says, “So I hit back. Smashed this glass on the back of his head. Mark watched the whole thing.” 

He wipes roughly at his eyes again, fabric irritating sensitive skin. He rubs and rubs even though there’s no tears left to dry, even though all it’s doing is aggravating the red of his eyelids. 

It’s not nice to watch so I grab his wrist. We sit for a second, our eyes passing messages of strife and comfort back and forth. Then he pulls his hand free and lets it hang at his side. 

“That man killed me.” He says quietly, “But I killed him too. Mark saw me kill someone. He looked so scared of me and I was almost glad that I wouldn’t have to live and see his fear for the rest of my life.” 

And he’s crying again and I’m just sitting in silence because my friend is a murderer. Even if he didn’t mean to do it, he’s dangerous. He killed someone. My mouth isn’t working, I’m staring. 

“That’s how Mark looked.” He sobs, “Because I was too fucking emotional. I was too emotional so I got drunk to forget and I became a monster.” 

I know I should do something. The more I stare, the more he cries and I know he thinks I’m going to run away again. But what am I supposed to say? 

The logical part of my brain says it was self-defense. The rest of it screams at me to run, tells me that this is not a person I know, this is a criminal, this is a monster. 

Emotional. 

That’s what I wrote on the list. Roger was emotional so he washed it away with alcohol and ended up a murderer. 

But I did bad things too. And mine were on purpose, unlike his. Who the hell am I to judge him for a drunk tragedy? 

“I got myself in hell. And now the last memory Mark will have of me is one that scares him. That moment will be all he thinks of if he thinks of me.” 

And he hides his face in his hands and cries and cries and I decide that I can’t leave him like this. No matter what he did, he’s still my friend and I know him and I care. And this is what I wanted, isn’t it? I wanted to know how he died. This is what I asked for. 

I reach out slowly and remove his hands from in front of his eyes, my heart stinging as tears threaten to touch my own eyes too as I see his face. 

“Hey.” I say, “I can’t tell you that what you did was okay. You know it wasn’t. But we all fuck up and Mark knows that. You’re human, you’re going to do shit sometimes. I’m sure that he misses you a lot, but that when he thinks of you he thinks of the good stuff instead.” 

He frowns, “Why are you so nice? I just told you I killed someone, how are you so understanding?” 

And now it’s my turn to look at the floor. 

“Because I fucked up too.” I say. 

“Mimi…” He whispers. I see he wants to tell me that I can’t have done anything as bad as him, wants to tell me not to say it. He knows it’s something he won’t cope with hearing. 

But he needs to hear it. I just had to listen to him admit to being a murderer, he needs to hear that I was a drug dealer. I can’t carry his secret without him knowing mine too, no matter how much he’ll be affected. 

“I died alone.” I say, my voice cracking, “I starved to death on the street after I ran away.”

“Mimi.” He says again, his voice stronger this time. 

He doesn’t want to hear. But I need to say it. I speak over him. 

“The secret I wanted to spill on my deathbed was one no one was around to hear. I wanted to tell you that I was going to hell, and that I knew why. But I couldn’t even move. I couldn’t speak.” 

“Mimi please.” He begs. 

I raise my voice, “I was too weak to do anything and it hurt and I wanted it to be over. But I never got to tell you what I did and now is my chance.” 

“Mimi stop!” He shouts, throwing his arms up in the air, “I don’t want to hear it!”

And yes, I get that it hurts for him to hear how painful my death was. I’m sure he’s blamed himself for letting me run. I’m sure he’s guilty. But I’m selfish and right now, I don’t care. I just want to say all this. 

“I sold drugs Roger!” I shout back at him, “I went against everything you ever said and sold drugs to people who were no more than kids!”

His face drops. His arms slam down to his sides. He stares. He opens his mouth but can’t seem to find words, shuts it again. His eyes scan the lines of my face, searching for something that says this is a joke. 

He looks more afraid than he has since I watched him walk through those doors. 

“I ignored everything you said, I went back to that life.” I say, “I let those kids ruin their lives, knowing full well what drugs do to a family!” 

And worse than the anger I was expecting, is the silent stare I’m faced with. Because I’d prepared myself for a shouting match. I was ready for him to blow up. But he just looks numb and broken and completely dead. 

“Mimi.” He whispers, tears falling from his eyes. 

But he’s so still and I hate it. This shouldn’t have happened. He should be shaking me by the shoulders and yelling in my face. He shouldn’t just be sitting there like all the hope has disappeared from the world. 

“Why aren’t you angry!?” I scream, “Why the hell are you just sitting there!? Can’t you hear!? I just told you that I willingly sold drugs even when I knew what they do to people! Why aren’t you angry!?”

I get it. He has no strength left for anger. Roger died and is so close to dying again. He doesn’t hate me for it, because he blames himself. Because everything has gone so wrong, that he can’t even be annoyed anymore - all that’s left to feel is pain. 

“Mimi.” He whispers again. 

And I want to hit him so badly. That tender look in his eyes, the horrible stillness of his body - it’s all wrong, so wrong. Hell has killed him. Hell has taken him from me, just as I ran from him. Karma, I suppose. 

“Stop this!” I scream, jumping up, “Fuck you! Stop looking so damn sad! Yell at me or something! Tell me what I did was wrong! Give me a fucking sign that you’re still in there!”

And I back away from him, from this man I’ve never seen. He’s so old, so tired, so weak. He’s got so many emotions inside. But no anger, and that’s what I need to comfort me. That’s what I was expecting. 

“I sold drugs!” I say again, “Can you hear that? I SOLD DRUGS!” 

But there’s no response. Roger just cries soundlessly but doesn’t move. Where’s the fury I deserve to receive? Where’s the look of hurt at my betrayal? Why is there only disappointment and exhaustion written on his face? 

And I’m on the floor, shaking and sobbing. And there are arms around me and I let myself sink into them. Everything is so bad. Why? Why? Why? 

“Any other world Mimi,” He whispers, “And I would be wishing you were dead for doing that. But right now, I don’t care what you did. I just want you here.” 

…

“What are these?” 

“What are what?” I ask. 

Roger points at the piece of paper, “These words - kindness, generosity, patience, inspiration, desperation, emotional, unfaithful, greed.” 

I shrug, “Attributes?” 

He hums quietly, “You know, they almost sound like a mantra. The first four are the lifestyle to get into heaven, the last four to hell.” 

I didn’t think about it like that. I was just analysing key features of our personalities, which I guess did mostly have leads into our deaths. 

I was _desperate_ so I sold drugs in a bid to survive. Roger was _emotional_ so he got drunk. Angel and Collins were _generous_ and _kind_ and got into heaven. 

Maybe if I knew how Maureen and Joanne died I could tie in _patience_ and _unfaithfulness_ to their deaths. Or maybe I’m reading too much into a stroke of luck and my words on this paper are completely random and unrelated. 

“Emotional.” He notes, “Exactly what I was when I told Mark I loved him.” 

I nod, “Desperate. That’s what I felt when I sold those drugs.”

Even now when I look at him, I expect some form of delayed anger. But he just nods and looks back down at the paper and I feel a pang of loneliness in my heart. 

“I wonder if Mark’s still inspired.” 

“What?” 

He points at a word, “You said Mark was the _inspiration_. I wonder if he still is, now that we’re all dead.” 

I wonder if Angel is still the _generosity_ and Collins is still the _kindness_. I wonder if Joanne is still the _patience_. I wonder if Maureen is still the _unfaithfulness_ and Benny is still the _greed_. 

I wonder if we’re all still the people we once were. 

“Where’s the pen?” Roger asks. 

“Drawer.” I say. 

He grabs it and starts to write something on my list. 

“What’re you adding?” I ask. 

And he shows me the paper: 

_Roger Davis - hell. Cause of death: u̶n̶k̶n̶o̶w̶n̶ bar fight  
 **Emotional**_

Maybe if we find others, we can add more to the list. Maybe we can unravel the mystery of everyone’s deaths. Maybe we can find out if my “attributes” really did have anything to do with things. 

Not that we’ll ever get to heaven. But we can settle for the ones we can find here at least, maybe they’ll have more answers. 

Roger doesn’t know how any of them died except for Angel, Collins, me, and Benny. Maureen and Joanne are the real targets. That’s what we need to know. 

“I think we should look for them.” I say suddenly, “I think we should find Maureen and Benny.”


	8. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c/w death

3rd Person P.O.V

_Mimi’s list had something to do with everything. She didn’t know it, but in fact her attributes were spot on. They all linked in with the group’s tragic deaths._

_She already knew that she was the Desperation. That was what motivated her to sell drugs. She also knew that Roger was the Emotion. That was why he got so drunk and confessed to Mark as he died._

_But there were bits she didn’t know, that she may never know. This story was incomplete and she was missing the last few pages - the ones where all was revealed._

_Maureen and Joanne died on the same night, in completely different places. Maureen had called Roger, asking if he wanted to meet up, to which he declined (and would forever feel guilty for). She wasn’t used to being turned away, so in her fit of pettiness she turned to someone else._

_Maureen remembered the woman who had flirted with her the day before, who had slipped her number into her pocket._

_“Hey.” Maureen said into the phone._

_“Oh my God, you called! Hi!”_

_“Yeah, I was wondering if I could come over tonight.”_

_This excited woman didn’t hear the sadness in Maureen’s voice, she was too distracted by the thrill of the moment. She didn’t realise that Maureen was drunk and miserable and unfit to drive, that it would be better if she told her to just stay at home that night until the alcohol was out of her system._

_That woman didn’t realise that she got Maureen killed by being blind to her pain. If she’d just said they should meet up another time, had seen that Maureen was not in a good state of mind, she could’ve been saved._

_“Sure! I’ll send you the address!”_

_Maureen was so unaccustomed to people rejecting offers to hang out, that she wondered if there was something wrong with her. She thought that maybe she’d done something to upset Roger, couldn’t see that he too just wasn’t in a good place._

_So she drank. And she called her newest hook-up. And she got in the car._

_She was drunk and she remembered nothing - only that someone had pushed her away and that she needed someone’s company to make her feel better. Sex always helped, she had discovered, even if there was no love in it._

_She could barely keep her hands on the wheel as drove. Her mind was sludge and her fingers couldn’t grip. She couldn’t even remember where she was going, or why she was driving at this time of night._

_She didn’t know why she was crying._

_Maureen died as the Unfaithful. That was her role and she fulfilled it. Mimi was right about that and Roger was right about it being part of a mantra to get into hell - a mantra that he, Mimi and Benny filled the other parts of._

_Desperation, Emotion, Unfaithfulness, and Greed. The four steps to reach hell._

_As her car spun off the road, Maureen didn’t know she was dying. She was so wasted that she had no fear, had no instinct telling her to jump out, to get away. Instead she just sat there with silent tears rolling down her face as the car flipped and caught fire and her neck was snapped._

_She just sat there and died. There was no effort to get free. She didn’t know she was dying, so it happened immediately and without pain. Even if it hurt, she would never remember it._

_Maureen died because she was heartbroken. She couldn’t live with herself. She hated who she’d become but could do nothing about it. Roger saying no that night was what pushed her too far. But it was always her unfaithfulness that killed her, unable to resist the urge to call that woman she didn’t even know._

_She also forgot that she was supposed to be meeting Joanne that night._

_She died without feeling it, without having time for any last thought. She had no deathbed secrets pouring out her lips because she didn’t know she was dying._

_But she died. And it must’ve looked horrible to anyone who saw - this young woman just sits there, seatbelt still fastened, as her head bleeds and the car goes up in flames. As her neck is snapped and her body thrown about._

_When she was in hell, she would have forever to look back on this. She would wish that she had drank less so she had enough sense to get out the front seat when the glass shattered in her eyes._

_Maureen would spend her afterlife hating the person she was, wishing that she’d remembered her date with Joanne that night. Because if she could’ve learnt how to be faithful, she would still be alive._

_Joanne would still be alive too._

_Their deaths had everything to do with each other, even if no one knew that. Joanne didn’t know Maureen had died the same night as her. And vice versa. Mimi and Roger didn’t know the circumstance or the correlation of the women’s misfortunes._

_Maureen thought she was the only one who died that night. She thought that maybe Joanne was still alive - she hoped._

_Joanne thought she was the only one who died that night. She thought that Maureen was alive or had died days after._

_They didn’t know that the other was dead, and that it was their fault._

_Unless the two were to meet again, they would never know the truths of the deaths. But that would mean travelling between afterlives, and that was almost unheard of. Maybe it was better if they just stayed where they were and let the past stay murky - knowing these things would only hurt further._

_Maureen would stay in hell and Joanne in heaven and they’d know only half of that night’s events._

_Because Joanne was in her apartment. She’d dressed up and she was waiting for her girlfriend to arrive. No one knew why she really believed Maureen would show up, she’d probably got drunk and forgotten where she was meant to be._

_Every time, Maureen was late. Yet Joanne kept waiting. She was the Patience. She somehow managed to convince herself that Maureen would come, that she just needed to give her time._

_And Maureen did love her, she just didn’t know how to show it. She was scared of long-term relationships and the binds of them. That’s why she hooked up with people; because she loved Joanne but was insecure and afraid she wouldn’t be good enough forever, that Joanne would lose patience._

_Maureen was scared that she wouldn’t be good enough to keep Joanne happy for the rest of their lives, so she kept herself occupied with other people. If Joanne stopped caring for her, she’d be okay. She could go back to a life of meaningless sex without having to worry about what she was bringing to the relationship._

_To put it simply, Maureen was scared of falling in love. But that was exactly what she had done with Joanne. But she never got to tell her, because she died on the way for more of that free sex._

_So Joanne was waiting that night. Her, Maureen, Roger, and Mark were the only ones left alive. She was feeling more alone by the day, but she kept her patience. She died patient, true to her part._

_She was sitting on her sofa, still sure that Maureen would remember and arrive, when the fire started. She tried to run from the flames but the apartment was on the top floor and there was no way down._

_She died crying and afraid. She didn’t want to die. So many others were gone that she thought this wasn’t fair. This was just life making a mockery of how easily people could be erased._

_This wasn’t right._

_Joanne didn’t know that Maureen had also died only hours before and that soon Roger would follow, leaving only Mark alive to pick up the ashes and plough on. She didn’t know that if Maureen hadn’t died and had met her on time, they would’ve both been out of the house and safe when the gas pipe burst._

_There was so much she didn’t know, and would never know. But that was life. And at least she had made it to heaven, where she’d never have to know what happened to Maureen._

…

Mimi’s P.O.V

Maureen is surprisingly easy to find. A diva in life, thriving on a stage. I should’ve known that she’d not be able to fade into the background, even in death. I don’t think she could survive without some kind of attention on her. 

She’s being whipped in the middle of a row of houses, somehow not crying, this cold look in her eyes as she clenches her jaw and lets her back get destroyed. Her hair’s short and rough and full of blood and completely different to how it was when she was alive.

But when she sees me, it’s like no version of her I’ve ever seen. I didn’t know she could possibly look so thrilled to see someone familiar. 

“Mimi!” She screams, running forward and hugging me tightly. 

I understand it. She’s been alone down here, probably thinking that’s how it would always be. And now I’m here and it must be overwhelming for her, surreal that suddenly someone she knows is here. 

As she hugs me, I realise that she only has one hand. The other is an ugly bloody stump. It doesn’t look like a hell wound that will be gone tomorrow, it looks like one she’s stuck with from death. 

I hug her back and honestly, I never thought I’d be so happy to hear her voice. Just this tiny bit of normality returning feels like a miracle. 

Suddenly Maureen pulls away and grabs my shoulders. 

“Mimi.” She says in a panicked voice, “Do you know where any of the others are?” 

If my heart wasn’t already frozen, it would break now. She sounds so terrified. I can hardly imagine how she’s felt - a woman who’s always had people surrounding her, suddenly all by herself and bleeding. Watching the ground swallow up victims every day, no one around to make sure she stays strong enough to avoid that fate herself. 

It makes me so glad I decided to search. 

“Roger’s back at my house.” I say, “We’ve been trying to find you and Benny.” 

And that’s when she starts to cry, gripping onto my clothes and squeezing me against her again. I’ve never seen her so affectionate - or so starved of healthy human contact. 

“I thought I was alone forever.” She says, crying into my top, “I thought I was going to die alone again.” 

I hug her again, “It’s okay. You’re here still, and so am I. You aren’t alone now.” 

She lets go of me, sniffs, and wipes her eyes with the forearm of the one that’s missing a hand. 

“I’m so happy to see you.” Maureen says, “I thought that I’d been separated from the rest of the world, I suppose it’s what I deserve really.” 

Now that she mentions it, there isn’t anyone else around. There are empty houses with flickering lights and dilapidated walls. There’s a whip embedded with rusty nails that floats midair. And then there’s my friend. It’s like she’s been given her own corner of hell to cry in. 

It’s like they’ve tried to make her feel as hopeless as possible so that she gives up and falls through the floor. 

“How did you die?” I ask.

She stiffens and breathes in sharply.

“Sorry.” I say, “It’s just, you know what happened to me. Maybe it’d be good to get it off your shoulders.” 

“You know.” She says quietly, “I think you’re right.” 

We step into one of the abandoned houses. The floors are wonky and the walls seem to move as the wind blows outside. There are creaks and moans and the sound of scuttling - though there are no animals in hell, so I find that quite spooky. 

The chairs are even less comfortable than the ones in my own house, but I sit on one and watch Maureen do the same. It feels so weird seeing her now, after so long, after I’d accepted that none of my friends would come to hell. 

But then Roger showed up and we wrote that list and we decided that there were more of us down here and that we had to do something about that. That’s why I’m here. That’s why he’s going to look for Benny tomorrow, after we’ve recovered from our labour and beating this afternoon.

“It was a crash.” She says softly, “I was so fucking drunk and depressed. I could hardly see, couldn’t think, couldn’t hold onto the wheel. I was so confused and upset, but I couldn’t remember. The alcohol made me forget everything that was going on.” 

She looks at me, gives a crooked little smile. 

“I was on my way to meet my latest hook up.” She says, sighing, “I died because I couldn’t be faithful for once in my life.”

_**Unfaithful.** _

That’s what I wrote on the list. That was Maureen’s attribute. Things start whirring in my head. Not only did mine, Roger’s, Collins’, and Angel’s deaths and fates link back to our attributes, but now Maureen’s did too. 

That cannot be coincidental. What are the chances? But now the real question is - how did I come up with those words? Did I just happen to stumble upon a great mystery? Or did someone plant them in my head and make me write them? 

I need answers. But maybe she can offer me a few. 

“The worst part,” She whispers, “Is that I didn’t even know I was dying. I only understood what was happening when I stepped through hell’s doors and broke down screaming that it wasn’t fair, that life hadn’t even given me a chance. I wasn’t allowed to even know I was dying, so there was never an option to fight it. I was cheated out of living.” 

Alcohol does that to a person. It makes you do what Roger did to that man in the bar. And it makes you lose contact with reality like Maureen did. It _kills_. 

“What about Joanne?” I ask, “Do you know how she died?” 

“No.” She whispers, “She was alive when I got in the car. She was…”

Maureen trails off and shakes her head, a strange look falling on her face.

“Oh God.” She whispers, “No, no, no.” 

“She was what?” I ask. 

And she’s staring at the floor, tears dropping down her face.

“She was waiting for me, in the apartment. I agreed to meet her, and I failed. What if she died because of me?” She says.

But there’s one word in my head. 

_**Patience.**_

That was Joanne’s attribute. What if Maureen’s right? What if Joanne died patiently waiting? My theory is too big to ignore, there’s too much proof. If we all died as a result of our attributes, why wouldn’t Joanne have? 

God, what if Joanne died the same night as Maureen? What if something terrible happened to both of them? Because of their unfaithfulness and patience? 

No. I can’t jump to all these conclusions. I said it myself - it’s just a theory. I have no concrete evidence why I should blame Maureen for accidentally getting Joanne killed. I can’t just guess and make things up to fill in my blanks. 

Maureen doesn’t know how Joanne died. Roger doesn’t know how Joanne died. Something tells me Benny won’t, since he was already dead before the two women - according to Roger anyway. 

I have no help here. It’s up to me to work out this puzzle, but do so without hurting anyone I care about. 

“Maureen.” I say, “There’s no way she died because of you. Bad things happen, and sometimes for seemingly no reason. But we can’t blame ourselves for all of them.” 

"Why are you here?" She asks quietly, "What did you ever do to get in hell?" 

I blink back tears, look at my feet. She's told me everything she knows. It's only fair. 

"I sold drugs." I whisper. 

"Oh Mimi..." 

And all we hear is the groaning of the floorboards and the howling of the wind. Maureen shifts in her seat.

She looks at me again with teary eyes and she says:

“I just wish I could see Joanne again, tell her that I loved her all along.” 

And that’s where life is cruel. We’re in hell and there’s no way of ever getting out. All of our apologies and our goodbyes and our confessions must stay in our bleeding hearts.


	9. 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c/w blood

Mimi's P.O.V 

I’m beginning to see that Maureen really isn’t good at lifting slabs of wood, considering the fact she only has one hand. But I admire her spirit - she seems to be trying the hardest out of the three of us. 

I think she’s desperately trying to prove she’s changed so some sympathetic force lets her up to heaven to talk to Joanne. Either that or she wants to show me that she’s useful. I don’t care how well she can build a house, I’m not going to send her back to that creepy little area with the whip. 

Her and Roger haven’t made eye contact the whole time and if we weren’t all bleeding right now, I’d ask what’s going on. Is there something I don’t know? If so, I’ll get it out of them. The deal down here is that we’re one hundred percent honest with each other. 

But really, I’ve got bigger things to focus on right now. I can feel blood gushing out the backs of my calves and I can see my hands - lumps of flesh with not enough fingers. The air smells sultry and it burns my dehydrated throat, violent coughs tearing through my chest. 

The floor hurts. My back aches. My feet sting. My throat is crying in pain. I’m sweating. I’m bleeding. I’m broken. I want to cry but have no tears. But I have to stay standing. Not only that, but I have to keep my friends standing too. 

I slam a piece of wood onto another, grabbing the hammer and ramming the nails into it, not even noticing as one of them is hammered into my own hand. When every part of my body already hurts, what more is one little piece of metal going to do? 

I can hear Maureen’s ragged breaths as she pants and wipes sweat and blood from her face. She bends over suddenly as her legs give out, ending in a squat, grabbing onto my arm and looking up at me with a panicked expression.

I help her up again, even though every muscle in my arm feels like it’s screaming, and she gives me a wide, genuine but tired smile in return. I hate this, but at least I know I’m useful to them. 

A long, thin line runs along Maureen’s head, trickling blood down her face and into her eyes. I pull the iron nail out of my hand, flinching as it grinds on a bone. 

My legs are weak but I will not fall. I refuse to let that happen. Not after seeing what happens, and wondering what happens once you’ve been taken. Not after finding people I care about and giving myself the responsibility to keep them here. 

The air is thickening with smoke clouds - the closest we get to a sunset here. I remember how beautiful sunsets used to be. I’d loved to see just one more. Or even to be allowed to see the moon again - anything human and comforting. 

Anything that isn’t my friends’ blood or the pain on their faces or the gruesome wounds that will soon be gone, only to be reopened tomorrow. If we’re stuck down here, can’t it at least have earthly familiarities to stop us losing our minds. 

I look over at Roger, at the silent tears rolling down his cheeks. Maureen has her back turned to him, showing a long bloody track that runs down her spine and ends in a large chunk of gouged out flesh. 

But I’m getting used to the gore. All that matters to me is that their legs stay straight and their heads stay away from the ground. I just want them to keep believing that there is a way out, so that their bodies keep battling the torture. 

… 

“So, you’re telling me that you two haven’t said anything to each other? You’ve been waiting for me to act as peacekeeper?” I ask.

They both look at the floor. I honestly can’t believe it. Roger asked around and managed to find Benny, brought him back here. But neither of them can get over their lives and talk things out without me there to help. Are they all completely useless without me? 

I was expecting them to have sorted some things out on the way here. Maybe Roger could’ve asked about Benny’s death, or if that was too much for him, even just how he’s been since he died. 

Two grown men and not one of them can be mature and suck up their petty feelings. I have to be the adult for them. Just because they argued while they were alive. Well, newsflash - we’re all dead now, so those disagreements don’t matter anymore. 

“Okay.” I say, rubbing my temples, “Before I say anything else, you two are gonna sort your shit out.” 

It’s like talking to kids. They both keep looking down. I don’t understand why Benny isn’t just so excited to see us, or why Roger isn’t just relieved. 

“I’m sorry for having an easier life than you.” Benny says. 

“I’m sorry for resenting you for it.” Roger sighs. 

I look between them. 

“Okay? Is that it? Are you ready to act your age now?” I ask. 

They nod and mutter some things under their breath. 

“So,” I say, “Benny, the deal is that you have to tell us all your dirt now. Or you can’t expect us to look out for you here.” 

“That’s fair.” He says, “Roger already knows how I died though.” 

“Yeah.” Roger puts in, “Of pneumonia, with loved ones crying all around you.” 

Benny frowns, “Last I checked, you were crying too.” 

“Whatever.” 

So, Roger doesn’t hate Benny as much as he pretends to. I’m not surprised. But he needs to let go of any of those negative feelings, because we’re stuck together now and this will be a lot easier if we learn how to get along. 

I was never particularly close to Maureen, but I’m still here for her. I wasn’t close to Benny either, but I don’t want him to walk out of this house and back to where Roger found him. I want us all to stick together and be truthful, no matter how hard that is. 

“When you died,” I say, “Is there anything important that you told anyone? The deathbed secret?” 

Benny looks at me, “I told Alison that I would probably never see her again.” 

“Why?” I ask. 

He looks away. I think I’ve pushed too far. I’m just getting so caught up in revealing all these answers, feeding the theory of mine and Roger’s mantra. I’m just so thirsty for knowledge and the feeling of power that it gives me. 

But if it’s going to upset people, I’ll stop prodding. I can deal without knowing everything, if it means they won’t run away - like I did in life. 

“You don’t have to-” I start. 

“I was greedy.” Benny says quietly, “My whole life was motivated by money. Alison always told me that I should focus on something more healthy, like loving her. But I pushed her away every time and went chasing after money.” 

_**Greed.**_

I think my brain explodes. No way. This can’t be happening. There is no way Benny’s death can really be linked to his greed. That is just too improbable. There is a less than one percent chance of him really dying because of his attribute - a thing that I made up. 

If I made it up, how the hell does it keep popping back up? 

Because if Benny says that greed was a factor leading to his death, well then there’s no denying that the mantra is exactly that. And it’s all real. Our flaws really are what got us all into hell. 

“I went out to…” He says, “Well, I was an awful person. I was squeezing the last bit of money out of a very poor family, when I knew very well they couldn’t afford to pay me their rent. But I just told them that was too bad.” 

He looks at me and Roger in turn, his eyes heavy and searching. If he’s after forgiveness, he need look no further. I’m already fully prepared to offer forgiveness to any of my friends who did something bad in life and are paying for it. Nothing anyone does would deserve the punishments here. 

“I got a cold that day.” He says, “Well, I thought it was a cold. But it didn’t go. And then it killed me. I died because I was greedy and I wanted their money. I knew I was coming to hell.” 

He’s staring at the wall, barely blinking. But my brain’s just telling me over and over that I’m really onto something, that we really all have died for these reasons, that maybe I’m mad and I’m just hyper fixating on something. 

“I told Alison.” Benny says, his voice breaking even though he isn’t crying yet, “That I loved her, and that I wished I’d had a chance to live as a better person. I told her that I was sorry I let my greed take over my life.”

Now he’s crying, but only gently. And in a shocking move, Roger slings an arm over Benny’s shoulder. And that’s when I realise that hell brings people together. In life, they had nothing alike and only bitter memories of the two of them. But here, they have shared pain and they have a reason to support each other. They have a twisted, sinister bond.

“I bet that she’s thinking about you now.” Roger says quietly, “But I bet that when she thinks about you, she looks past the bad bits, and focuses on the good. I bet she remembers how much you love her.” 

Benny looks at him, confused but grateful, “I wish I could see her.” 

Roger sighs, “I know. When I died, I told Mark that I loved him. I wish I could see him too. But the world’s fucked and neither of us can get what we want.” 

And I think I’m about to start crying because they’re really trying so hard now to get along and to push away their histories. For my sake. They’re sharing their stories and using them to help and I’m so proud and so happy and so sad and everything at once. 

Every emotion is dancing through my head and I’m crying. Benny’s crying and Roger’s crying and they’re sitting beside each other as if they’ve been friends all along and haven’t had an ongoing feud all through life. It’s like everything’s turned upside down and left me stranded the wrong way up. 

“I had something else.” Benny says, “When I died. I told Alison that. But I also looked over at you and Mark and I wanted to tell you that I was sorry for treating you so horribly, and that I never meant any of it.” 

Roger just smiles at him through tears, “I knew it. Even you couldn’t have been that much of a dick.” 

“You’d be surprised.” Benny chuckles, “Before Alison lit up my life I was quite the dick.” 

“Oh I take your word for that.” Roger says. 

And it seems to me that in this broken little world, some things are still right. There may be a lot of dark, but we are able to make a bit of light. Everything may be a mess, but at least it’s one with a few tidy parts. 

They both turn to me and smile. 

“You planning on just sitting over there watching us talk about our failed love lives?” Roger says.

“Yeah.” I say, “Seems fun.” 

He rolls his eyes. 

“Come over here Mimi. You know you want to.” Roger says, Benny wiggling his eyebrows at me.

I stand up, “You know what? Boys are annoying. I think I’ll go see what Maureen’s doing.” 

“Wuss.” Roger says. 

“I know you are.” I shoot back, grinning, “Enjoy catching up, boys.” 

… 

“There you are.” I say. 

Maureen looks up at me with red eyes and I immediately see that something’s off. She’s been so bright and smiley, ever since she told me the details of her death. This is a side that I don’t want to see, not after convincing myself that things were okay. 

“I can’t do it.” She says quietly, distantly, “I thought it’d be okay, but I can’t even look at him.” 

And just like that, every hope I’d scraped up falls away, all collapsing in one great miserable pile of dust. I’m not even allowed one minute of happiness. Hell won’t give me that. 

“Who?” I ask tiredly. 

I want to help, honest. But I don’t think I can do this now. I’m so exhausted and I think if I stand out here any longer, breathing in this fire air, I’m going to pass out and be eaten by the earth, with Maureen watching and not able to do anything to stop it. 

“Roger.” She says, “I can’t stop thinking about the night I died.” 

She already told me, she died in a car crash on the way to have sex with some woman. She never mentioned Roger, so what does he have to do with it? Why’s she so tormented by looking at him? How many more secrets does she have? 

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” I ask. 

Cruelly, I don’t want her to. I just want to sleep. I want her to talk this out with someone else. If we were alive, that would be Angel’s job. But now I’ve had to become Angel and I’ve had to take on roles I never thought I would and I don’t know how long I can keep it all up. 

Now there’s only four of us and I’m the responsible one. I’m the one to carry everyone else’s emotional baggage. I wish it could be different. 

“Yeah.” Maureen says, brushing away a tear, “I only told you part of the story before.” 

So, I wait for her to finish. I let my eyelids feel droopy and wish I could be in a bed, while still looking like I’m interested in what she says. And I would be - any other time and I’d be soaking in all of this information like a sponge. 

“So, I got drunk.” She says, “But I got drunk because I’d asked Roger if he wanted to hang out somewhere, and he said no. And I responded fucking badly to rejection apparently.” 

Of course he said no. He’s Roger. He never even wanted to go anywhere with me, let alone Maureen. He’d barely agree to meet with Mark, and that said it all. By nature, he doesn’t make plans and he doesn’t do people. 

But I’m surprised she even asked. I didn’t know they were even that close. I guess Maureen just gets emotionally attached to anyone and everyone. Maybe she just asked him because she wanted the company and didn’t know who else would accept the offer. 

“It isn’t his fault.” She says, “But then I got drunk and crashed and this is the first time I’ve seen him since. I don’t want to blame him at all, but I can’t help being a bit annoyed at him.” 

Obviously. But if I know Roger, I’m sure he’s beating himself up over it. That’s why he isn’t talking to Maureen, because he blames himself for her dying. And she’s naturally a bit angry at him for turning her away so easily, so she won’t talk to him. It’s a damn stalemate. 

And it’s one that I really can’t deal with now. 

“You know,” I say, “I think that if you go and talk to him about it, you’ll feel better. You can get out your feelings about the situation, and he can get out his. You’re both rational people, I’m sure talking it out will make you feel less awkward together.” 

She looks at me for a second and then smiles. 

“I think you’re right.” She says, “Thanks Mimi. What would we do without you?” 

I don’t know, and that’s what keeps me awake at night. Because how would they all cope if something was to happen to me? How fragile really is everything we’re building here?


	10. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c/w death

Mimi's P.O.V

I’m accepting that there are many things we will never be able to know. Some of those including whether or not Mark is still alive, if Joanne’s patient death was in any way linked to Maureen’s unfaithful one, or whether Roger’s love confession was one that could have been turned into a relationship in another life. I’ll never know what happened to the families of the kids I sold drugs to, and we’ll never know if Alison forgave Benny for dying so greedily. 

We’ll never know anything that happened after we died. We’ll never know what it’s like for our friends in heaven without us, and whether they’re missing us or not. We’ll never know what any of them are thinking and if they’ve even chosen to forget us. 

We have no choice but to remember them. But we’re trying to cope anyway. We’ve talked everything out, we’ve admitted to all our sins, we let our blood stain the ground, but we’re still here. We can get on as well as we want, we’ll still always be in hell. 

There are so many things I want to know, but all of which I’ll never be able to. And I have to face that and deal with it. Things are okay. Maureen and Roger have talked a little bit, Benny’s still being uncharacteristically friendly, I’m still worn out - stuck being the guardian. 

Stuck filling out the role of a woman I could never dream of being. Angel was so much better than me. She made helping look easy, but it really isn’t. Helping is what’s making my entire body ache and sting. 

Angel always acted like helping was just second nature to her, but to me it’s something that’s eating me from inside. Because no matter how much I try to just be around for my friends, I always have the nagging thought that they’d all be dead meat without me.

They wouldn’t last long without me. And I’m beginning to doubt whether I can keep going. Every day I feel weaker and I believe less and less that I’ll be able to stay strong. And the more I question my own ability to stay standing, the more tired my mind gets and the more my body decides that I’ve given up. 

I’m scared that I’m letting myself fade. And the more I fear that, the more ill I feel and the more certain I grow that my time in hell grows short. And then I worry even more because Maureen said it herself yesterday: what would they do without me? 

Am I really the glue holding them together? Or do I put unnecessary pressure on myself? Are they individually strong or is it just because of me? 

I guess I’ve helped. I’ve listened to all of their deaths, I’ve got them to talk to each other, I’ve got them back to their feet. But I am in hell after all, none of this can make me a good person. There’s no making up for my mistakes. 

What happens? Everything is suddenly so uncertain. God, Angel, how did you do it? The first to die, and even when you were sick you still helped. I have all the time imaginable and yet I still fail them where you succeeded. 

How did you let go Angel? How did you slip away first, knowing that you were the last of the love available in our hearts? How did you stay brave when you gave up? 

How can I leave them? When it’s my time to be claimed by the earth, how will I be able to let them go? Will they be okay without me here? Have I really done that much to help? 

I let the tears run down my face as I lie in the bed. I’m so tired. I don’t think I could move if I tried. But I’m also guilty. I’m needed. I’m exaggerating this, surely. I can get out there and face more beatings. I’ve done it every day since I got here, why should now be any different? 

Angel, am I dying for the second time? And if I am, will it hurt as much as it did the first time? 

Surely it will. Because no pain could compare to that of knowing my friends will soon follow. I don’t care if this is giving up. I need to sort some things out now, just in case. I need to make sure they’ll be okay after. 

Angel, I just want to be like you. I want to help. But I’m scared that helping is the very thing that’s destroying me, and I’m at a crossroads. 

…

“So, you’re all okay with each other?” I ask for the third time. 

I haven’t moved, just brought them in here to me. Maureen’s smiling, Benny looks confused, but the bit that unnerves me most is Roger. He’s staring at me, frowning, and I’m sure he’s onto me. 

“Are you alright Mimi?” He asks quietly. 

“Fine.” I say quickly. 

He grabs my hands and meets my face with frightened eyes that break my heart. 

“You’re shaking.” He whispers. 

He just looks at me. I can almost hear it all clicking together in his head: she doesn’t seem able to get up, she’s frantically asking if our relationships are all intact, she’s physically shaking. 

I feel bad for a moment as I see his eyes. This person who I swore to be completely honest with, I’m now blatantly deceiving. But isn’t it for the best? He doesn’t want me to tell him I think I’m dying. He’ll just cry and close off again and tell me that I can’t go. 

And then Maureen and Benny will cry too and everything will fall apart and I’ll feel the need to help them again, but I won’t be able to, which will just end up hurting me even more. 

“I’m fine Roger.” I say quietly, but his eyes show that he doesn’t believe me. 

He turns to Maureen and Benny and I see that his eyes are filling with tears. All I want to do is reach out and hug him, but I can’t. I can’t do anything. 

“Do you mind just leaving for a minute?” He asks them. 

And Maureen nods, pulls him into a quick hug. 

“Shout if you need anything.” She says, shooting me a concerned glance. 

And they’re gone and Roger’s sat on the edge of the bed and I can see him fighting back the tears. I don’t want him to cry, selfish as that is. That’ll just show me how much it’ll affect him if something does happen to me. 

He just looks at me for a minute, deciding what to say. All while his eyes are looking more and more wounded by the second and the gnawing monster of guilt is biting at my stomach. 

“Don’t cry.” I whisper, “Please.” 

Something about my words seems to break him. He just clamps a hand to his mouth and shuts his eyes, actions that seem to drive a dagger all the way down to the hilt into my heart. 

“Mimi.” Roger says, “I lost you once, I can’t do that again.” 

“That was different.” I whisper, “Last time I ran, this time I’m just dying.” 

“But I didn’t find you!” He shouts, “You died once because of me and it won’t happen again!”

And he slumps again, tears running down his face, body trembling, chest moving up and down unevenly. I can’t see this, it’s killing me. I’m not going to die okay, I just want him to stop blaming himself for what happened to me. 

I ran away. I sold drugs. I starved. Never at any point was that Roger’s fault. And if it makes him feel better, what’s happening to me now isn’t his fault either. It’s always been me - always the hypocrite, telling others not to give up to the darkness when it’s me who’s losing hope. 

If only I was Angel. Then I’d be tough enough to keep bleeding. Then I’d be able to withstand the draining demands of helping a group of people fix all their problems. 

“I’m fine Roger.” I say softly. 

“I know.” He says firmly, “So, why don’t you act like you’re fine?” 

I get it. He’s angry at me for seeming so apathetic at the thought of dying. He doesn’t understand why I’m letting it happen, even when we both say that I’m fine. Neither do I, really. 

“Roger.” I say, taking his hand, “I’m okay. I’ll be okay. I’m not going to leave you again.” 

And he looks at me and I see all the tears. His hand is clammy in mine and his fingers are tightly gripping, like I’ll die if he lets go. 

“You’re an amazing person.” He says, “I never said it often enough, but I really love you. You’re the best friend I ever had.” 

And any other time, this would make me mad. I’d get annoyed at him for this - for giving me up to death. But right now I’m just so fatigued that all it does is make a couple of halfhearted tears trickle out my eyes. 

That one awake part of my brain tells me that he’s living up to the mantra again - emotional. But I’m barely conscious enough to pay attention to that. All my remaining strength will go into making sure my friends have what it takes to survive after they lose me. 

I need to set up the foundations for them, as a final act. It’s the least I can do, after making them watch me die like this. If that is what’s happening right now. 

“Hey.” I whisper, “Stop it. Stop saying goodbye. I’m not dead. I’m here, aren’t I?” 

He nods slightly, still looking at me intently like he’s seen a ghost. And maybe that’s not the best simile to use, seeing as we’re both already in hell and I could well be on the verge of disappearing into the dark void beneath forever, but it’s the only way I can describe the desperate look in his eyes. 

This man, someone I’ve grown up with, someone who’s always been there, someone who ended up in hell for manslaughter, someone who died confessing his love, someone who I ran away from to die alone. And here he is, forced to watch me die again. 

All this time, I thought I had what it took to survive in hell. Turns out I was wrong. I was never cut out for this. It’s them: Roger and Maureen and Benny. They’re the good ones. They’re the ones who will be able to cope. 

I’ve just been telling myself that I won’t give up, when really, I gave up the second I walked through the doors. I’ve just been trying to ignore it. 

“You’re not going to die Mimi.” He says quietly, “You’re the one who made me get up again, I will not let you just lie down and surrender.” 

His hands are shaking against mine, his eyes examining my face for any sign that his words are getting through. I think most of it is just desperation that I’ll be alright, that I won’t die. But I can’t make promises like that. I can’t allow him relief. 

I squeeze his hand weakly, “I died once. It can’t happen again, okay?” 

But I don’t know. I feel like all I’m doing is lying. I don’t know if I’ll be alright. I don’t know if I will die again. I don’t know anything. 

“I just need to lie here for a bit and -” I say. 

“No.” Roger interjects, his eyes flashing with fear, “You have to get up.” 

I know that. But I just can’t. My legs are numb. I’d collapse if I tried to take a step. 

“I can’t.” I whisper, my eyes trying to close, “I’m so tired.” 

He suddenly looks frantic as he cries heavier, shaking harder than before. I can barely see. My body just wants to sleep. It doesn’t offer me enough emotion to even empathise with my sobbing friend, just tells me to shut my eyes and rest. 

“Mimi please!” He begs, “You aren’t even trying! You’re letting yourself die again! You’re letting me lose you again!”

And there’s fire in my throat. That hot, corrosive air is scorching its way down my trachea and I need a drink, but that’s not an option. I can feel it melting through my flesh and all I can do is cough. I cough until Roger grabs my hand again and tries to tell me it’ll be alright, just like with that woman. 

My eyes water from it, but I just keep coughing. The irritation, the burning, won’t go away. Am I going to go out like this? I claw at my throat, my voice completely dead, just wanting it to stop. I have things I need to say to Roger before I die. 

I feel a pair of hands pull my own away from my throat, feel the pain ease slightly. 

“Mimi.” He whispers, “Remember what you told me - once someone gives up, there’s nothing you can do to save them. You can’t give up. You’re the strongest one here.” 

And desperation hits me. I don’t hear his words, don’t care for his words. I just want him to know, want to make sure I don’t die silently. The deathbed secret has its full hold of me, and every inch of my frail body is set on making sure my mouth works now. 

I let my hand stay in his, look up and croak out:

“I’m onto something with the mantra. It can’t be forgotten. It needs to keep being investigated. Please.” 

And as I say it, I feel so desperate and that’s enough to convince me that the mantra really is worth being the last thing I tell him. And I hate to waste my dying breath on something that he must find so hard to hear, because I love him so much, but I have to. 

I love him so much…

I do, don’t I? I have all along. I just never let myself see it because I knew he loved Mark. But God, I’ve always loved Roger. I’ve always loved how kind he’s been to me, and how much he’d remind me that I wasn’t alone. I’ve always loved his company and I’ve loved making him smile. 

“You’ll be okay Mimi.” He says, his tears falling onto my arm.

I won’t. But I deserve it. I’m no Angel. I can’t do it. But he can. The man I love is strong enough, even if he doesn’t know it. 

I hope they get their miracle. I pray that Roger gets to see Mark and Maureen gets to see Joanne and Benny gets to see Alison. I pray that they somehow defy the universe and get to heaven, even if they must go without me. 

Leave me behind. Let me slip away into the pit. Let my memories be erased and my name be forgotten. Let me lose my face and beliefs. Let me exist no more, but let them continue to. 

Let my list stay in Roger’s hands. Let my impact outlive me. Let them all remember the good I did for them, rather than forgetting I was ever here. Let them look back on Mimi Marquez with a smile because she was the one who kept them on their feet, she was the motivation, she just wasn’t brave enough. 

“Roger.” I say softly, brushing my fingers along his cheek, “I love you.” 

And he just cries. He lost me, he found me, and now he’s losing me again. I’m breaking his heart, just like he broke Mark’s. Is that all we do? Destroy each other? 

“Please.” He sobs, “Please don’t leave. You’re fine. You said it yourself. You’ll be fine.” 

I just rest my hand on his face and whisper:

“Promise that you’ll carry on for me.” 

“Not without you.” He says. 

“Promise me.” 

He just keeps crying, “I can’t promise anything.” 

I want to sleep. It’s all I want to do anymore. To see Roger stop crying and to sleep. I love him so much but I don’t want to see how much I’m hurting him. I just want him to take my list, to go back to Maureen and Benny, and to let me sleep. 

I’m selfish. I’m so selfish. I really am giving up. And I don’t even care. The mysterious nothingness I’m soon to face doesn’t even scare me anymore - my head hurts so much from exhaustion that all I want is to lie down and go quietly. 

I hope that maybe, just maybe, my friends will get their wish. I hope they get to see the people we’re separated from and tell them what I sacrificed. I hope they’re able to remember me as more than just a desperate girl who made error after error. 

I’ll never get to see if my attribute idea really was right. I’ll never see anything again once I let my eyes shut. But that seems okay. 

I force open my dry lips. 

“I love you.” I whisper one more time. 

And Roger just shakes his head.

“This isn’t it.” He says, “You aren’t going to die like this.” 

But I’m shutting my eyes. I’m so tired. I can barely make my lungs keep breathing. I can only see his face. Everything is going dark around the edges of my vision. I can’t stay awake. 

“Don’t give up.” I say. 

And I’m sure that as my eyes slowly close, this is the last time I’ll ever see the face of the man I’ve only just let myself love. This is the last time I’ll have a thought.

… 

“You’ll never guess what I heard!” Maureen’s voice, bursting through my painful slumber. 

“Maureen.” Roger, shaky and pleading. 

“So, there’s this woman down the street.” Maureen, oblivious, “She was telling me about these rumours - bare in mind that they are just rumours.” 

“Maureen.” Roger, hand gripping mine. 

“She said there are stories of people working their way up to purgatory!” She says, “And then reunited with loved ones in heaven!”

“Maureen, now isn’t the time.”

“Can’t you hear what I’m saying Roger?” She says, “I’m saying that if these rumours are true, there might be a way for you to see Mark again!”

Quiet. Heartbeats. Breaths. Eyes shut. 

“Is she going to be okay?” Maureen, too vulnerable. 

A broken sob. A weight as Maureen sits on the end of the bed too. If I could open my eyes, I’m sure I’d see two crying people. But God, my mind is a mess. So slow. 

Angel, I wasn’t able to help like you would have. And now I’ll never see you again. I know you won’t hear my thoughts, none of you can, but let them be stronger than me. Don’t make them follow me. 

I’ve fallen for the last time. There is no standing back up this time. 

There is no future. And soon enough, there will be no past. I will never have existed. I will be gone. I will sleep. 

“Hey Mimi.” Maureen’s voice creeps in, “You’re gonna be okay.” 

I cough again. Coughing on air that tastes like blood. Or maybe that’s just my throat bleeding. It doesn’t hurt, not anymore. 

I can’t do this anymore. I hate to leave them, but all I’m doing is dragging out a dying life. 

The bed disappears. I fall. My body is caught in the earth and I’m immediately soaked with blood. I hear screams, feel someone pulling my arm. But my eyes stay shut and I don’t fight it. 

I cry. I allow myself these last tears. Death hurts even more the second time. The guilt of knowing who I’m leaving to suffer every day is immense. But there’s this small, evil sense of relief. No more bleeding. No more crying. No more trying to help. 

There’s warm. And then cold. The voices fade. I shiver. I open my eyes but all I see is darkness. 

I’m sorry, is what I want to say, I’m sorry for abandoning you. I’m sorry for not being good enough. I’m sorry for giving up. 

I love you, is what I want to say, I’ve always loved you but I was never allowed to. I loved you even as I shut my eyes. 

I’m scared, is what I want to say, I’m scared of what waits for me. I’m scared of vanishing. I’m scared of not being me anymore.

And then in an instant, all memories gone. I am no one. I am nothing. But there are tears and they are hot against my icy skin. 

Then a mouth. Huge white teeth and a tongue rolling out to greet me. This is death. I don’t scream. I don’t run. 

I let this thing eat me. And then I am no more. I am snuffed out and suddenly, my conscience is gone. I am not a sentient being. 

I just disappear into the dark and never come back.


End file.
